And then there was Bertie Stuyvesant, beautiful and winning--the boy
who had sat opposite Montague at dinner. Bertie's father had been a
coal man, and nobody knew how many millions he had left. Bertie was
gay; last week he had invited them to a brook-trout breakfast--in
November--and that had been a lark! Somebody had told him that trout
never really tasted good unless you caught them yourself, and Bertie
had suddenly resolved to catch them for that breakfast. "They have a
big preserve up in the Adirondacks," said Betty; "and Bertie ordered
his private train, and he and Chappie de Peyster and some others
started that night; they drove I don't know how many miles the next
day, and caught a pile of trout--and we had them for breakfast the
next morning! The best joke of all is that Chappie vows they were so
full they couldn't fish, and that the trout were caught with nets!
Poor Bertie--somebody'll have to separate him from that decanter
now!"

From the hall there came loud laughter, with sounds of scuffling,
and cries, "Let me have it!"--"That's Baby de Mille," said Miss
Wyman. "She's always wanting to rough-house it. Robbie was mad the
last time she was down here; she got to throwing sofa-cushions, and
upset a vase."

"Isn't that supposed to be good form?" asked Montague.

"Not at Robbie's," said she. "Have you had a chance to talk with
Robbie yet? You'll like him--he's serious, like you."

"What's he serious about?"