And so it came to pass one pleasant Saturday afternoon in late October
that, in twos and threes, a number of solemn old gentlemen, faultlessly
attired, entered the red drawing-room of the Seagrave house and seated
themselves in an impressive semicircle upon the damask chairs.

They were Colonel Stuart Mallett, president of the institution, just
returned from Paris with his entire family; Calvin McDermott, Joshua
Hogg, Carl Gumble, Friedrich Gumble; the two vice-presidents, James Cray
and Daniel Montross; Myndert Beekman, treasurer; Augustus Varick,
secretary; the Hon. John D. Ellis; Magnelius Grandcourt 2d, and Remsen
Tappan, Trust Officer.

If the pillars of the house of Seagrave had been founded upon millions,
the damask and rosewood chairs in the red drawing-room now groaned under
the weight of millions. Power, authority, respectability, and legitimate
affluence sat there majestically enthroned in the mansion of the late
Anthony Seagrave, awaiting in serious tribunal the appearance of the
last of that old New York family.

Mrs. Severn came in first; the directors rose as one man, urbane,
sprightly, and gallant. She was exceedingly pretty; they recognised it.
They could afford to.

Compositely they were a smooth, soft-stepping, soft-voiced, company. An
exception or two, like Mr. Tappan, merely accented the composite
impression of rosy-cheeked, neatly shaven, carefully dressed prosperity.
They all were cautious of voice, moderate of speech, chary of gesture.
There was always an impressive pause before a director of the Half Moon
Trust answered even the most harmless question addressed to him. Some
among them made it a conservative rule to swallow nothing several times