Mrs. Birtwell was a woman of another order. All her life she had
been used to the elegancy that a wealthy parentage gave, and to
which her husband had been, until within a few years, an entire
stranger. She was "to the manner born," he a parvenu with a restless
ambition to outshine. Familiarity with things luxurious and costly
had lessened their value in her eyes, and true culture had lifted
her above the weakness of resting in or caring much about them,
while their newness and novelty to Mr. Birtwell made enjoyment keen,
and led him on to extravagant and showy exhibitions of wealth that
caused most people to smile at his weakness, and a good many to ask
who he was and from whence he came that he carried himself so
loftily. Mrs. Birtwell did not like the advanced position to which
her husband carried her, but she yielded to his weak love of
notoriety and social eclat as gracefully as possible, and did her
best to cover his too glaring violations of good taste and
conventional refinement. In this she was not always successful.

Of course the best of liquors in lavish abundance were provided by
Mr. Birtwell for his guests. Besides the dozen different kinds of
wine that were on the supper-table, there was a sideboard for
gentlemen, in a room out of common observation, well stocked with
brandy, gin and whisky, and it was a little curious to see how
quickly this was discovered by certain of the guests, who scented it
as truly as a bee scents honey in a clover-field, and extracted its
sweets as eagerly.

Of the guests who were present we have now to deal chiefly with Mr.
Ridley, and only incidentally with the rest. Dr. Hillhouse was there
during the first part of the evening, but went away early--that, is,