hundred-foot ballroom. Something to hold a crowd; something that can be
used for music--sabe?--a concert, or a show."

"Have you thought of any style, Mr. Rushbrook?" suggested the architect.

"No," said Rushbrook; "I've been thinking of the time--thirty days, and
everything to be in. You'll stop to dinner. I'll have you sit near Jack
Somers. You can talk style to him. Say I told you."

"You wish it completed in thirty days?" repeated the architect,
dubiously.

"Well, I shouldn't mind if it were less. You can begin at once. There's
a telegraph in the house. Patrick will take any message, and you can
send up to San Francisco and fix things before dinner."

Before the man could reply, Rushbrook was already giving a hurried
interview to the gardener and others on his way to the front porch. In
another moment he had entered his own hall,--a wonderful temple of white
and silver plaster, formal, yet friable like the sugared erection of a
wedding cake,--where his major-domo awaited him.

"Well, who's here?" asked Rushbrook, still advancing towards his
apartments.

"Dinner is set for thirty, sir," said the functionary, keeping step
demurely with his master, "but Mr. Appleby takes ten over to San
Mateo, and some may sleep there. The char-a-banc is still out and five
saddle-horses, to a picnic in Green Canyon, and I can't positively say,
but I should think you might count on seeing about forty-five guests