the wide-open eyes of a child.

One began to learn quickly, he found. It was like being swept into a
maelstrom: first the hurrying throngs on the ferry-boat, and then
the cabmen and the newsboys shouting, and the cars with clanging
gongs; then the swift motor, gliding between trucks and carriages
and around corners where big policemen shepherded the scurrying
populace; and then Fifth Avenue, with its rows of shops and towering
hotels; and at last a sudden swing round a corner--and their home.

"I have picked a quiet family place for you," Oliver had said, and
that had greatly pleased his brother. But he had stared in dismay
when he entered this latest "apartment hotel"--which catered for two
or three hundred of the most exclusive of the city's
aristocracy--and noted its great arcade, with massive doors of
bronze, and its entrance-hall, trimmed with Caen stone and Italian
marble, and roofed with a vaulted ceiling painted by modern masters.
Men in livery bore their wraps and bowed the way before them; a
great bronze elevator shot them to the proper floor; and they went
to their rooms down a corridor walled with blood-red marble and
paved with carpet soft as a cushion. Here were six rooms of palatial
size, with carpets, drapery, and furniture of a splendour quite
appalling to Montague.

As soon as the man who bore their wraps had left the room, he turned
upon his brother.

"Oliver," he said, "how much are we paying for all this?"

Oliver smiled. "You are not paying anything, old man," he replied.