The name written on his card was Mrs. Alden. She came in just after
him--a matron of about fifty, of vigorous aspect and ample figure,
approaching what he had not yet learned to call embonpoint. She wore
brocade, as became a grave dowager, and upon her ample bosom there
lay an ornament the size of a man's hand, and made wholly out of
blazing diamonds--the most imposing affair that Montague had ever
laid eyes upon. She gave him her hand to shake, and made no attempt
to disguise the fact that she was looking him over in the meantime.

"Madam, dinner is served," said the stately butler; and the
glittering procession moved into the dining-room--a huge state
apartment, finished in some lustrous jet-black wood, and with great
panel paintings illustrating the Romaunt de la Rose. The table was
covered with a cloth of French embroidery, and gleaming with its
load of crystal and gold plate. At either end there were huge
candlesticks of solid gold, and in the centre a mbund of orchids and
lilies of the valley, matching in colour the shades of the
candelabra and the daintily painted menu cards.

"You are fortunate in coming to New York late in life," Mrs. Alden
was saying to him. "Most of our young men are tired out before they
have sense enough to enjoy anything. Take my advice and look about
you--don't let that lively brother of yours set the pace for you."

In front of Mrs. Alden there was a decanter of Scotch whisky. "Will
you have some?" she asked, as she took it up.

"No, I thank you," said he, and then wondered if perhaps he should
not have said yes, as he watched the other select the largest of the