couldn't speak to him for a month after. Mrs. Foster,--she's one of the
biggest guns, you know, a regular cannon,--refurnished her house last
summer, and all the New York papers wanted photographs. She went
cranky, and said they shouldn't have them. Wouldn't even listen to
Lancaster's pleadings. But he hadn't jollied the butler for nothing. She
didn't stop here last summer--only came down every two weeks and
rearranged every stick of the furniture. The butler was nearly
distracted. It was as much as his place was worth to have her find any
of the chairs out of place, and the rooms had to be swept. So he hit on
a plan. He bought a camera and photographed the rooms every time Mrs.
Foster came down. One day he met Lancaster on the avenue and confided
his method of keeping up with the old lady. You may be sure Lancaster
was not long getting a set of those photos. It cost the newspaper a pot
of money, for the butler was no fool. But there they were next Sunday.
And Mrs. Foster doesn't know to this day how it was done."

Webb listened with mingled amusement and dismay. He was slowly beginning
to realize the determined segregation, from the common herd, of these
people, to whom he had come so confidently to offer homage. He changed
the subject.

"I don't want to stay here, don't you know," he said, glancing
scornfully over his shoulder at the hotel which in its day had housed
the most distinguished in the land. "What would you advise? Take a
cottage?"

"Take a cottage!" Mr. Chapman fairly gasped. "Are you a millionaire in
disguise? If you were, I don't believe you could get one. The swells
shut up theirs when they don't come, or let them to their friends. The
others are mostly taken year after year by the same people. No; I'll