The Metropolis

"Who is he.? A tailor?" asked the girl.

Oliver was sitting on the edge of the canape, swinging one leg over the other; and he stopped abruptly and stared, and then sank back, laughing softly to himself. "O dear me!" he said. "Poor Reggie!"

Then, reaUsing that he would have to begin at the beginning, he proceeded to explain that Reggie Mann was a cotillion leader, the idol of the feminine side of society. He was the special pet and protege of the great Mrs. de Graffen-ried, of whom they had surely heard — Mrs. de

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so THE METROPOLIS

Graffenried, who was acknowledged to be the mistress of society at Newport, and was destined some day to be mistress in New York. Reggie and Ohver were "thick," and he had stayed in town on purpose to attend to her attiring — having seen her picture, and vowed that he would make a work of art out of her. And then Mrs. Robbie Walling would give her a dance, and all the world would come to fall at her feet.

"You and I are going out to 'Black Forest,' the Wallings' shooting-lodge, to-morrow," Oliver added to his brother. " You'll meet Mrs. Robbie there. You've heard of the Wallings, I hope."

"Yes," said Montague, "I'm not that ignorant."

"All right," said the other, "we're to motor down. I'm going to take you in my racing-car, so you'll have an experience. We'll start early."

"I'll be ready," said Montague; and when his brother replied that he would be at the door at eleven, he made another amused note as to the habits of New Yorkers.

The price which he paid at the hotel included the services of a valet or a maid for each of them, and so when their baggage arrived they had nothing to do. They went to lunch in one of the main dining rooms of the hotel, a room with towering columns of dark green marble and a maze of palms and flowers. Oliver did the ordering; his brother noticed that the simple meal cost them about fifteen dollars, and he wondered if they were to eat at that rate all the time.

Then Montague mentioned the fact that before

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leaving home he had received a telegram from. General Prentice, asking him to go with him that evening to the meeting of the Loyal Legion. Montague wondered, half amused, if his brother would deem his old clothing fit for such a function. But Oliver replied that it would not matter what he wore there; he would not meet anyone who counted, except Prentice himself. The General and his family were prominent in society, it appeared, and were to be cultivated. But Oliver shrewdly forebore to elaborate upon this, knowing that his brother would be certain to talk about old times, which would be the surest possible method of lodging himself in the good graces of General Prentice.

After luncheon came Reggie Mann, dapper and exquisite, with slender little figure and mincing gait, and the delicate hands and soft voice of a woman. He was dressed for the afternoon parade, and wore a wonderful scarlet orchid in his buttonhole. Montague's hand he shook at his shoulder's height; but when Alice came in he did not shake hands with her. Instead, he stood and gazed, and gazed again, and lifting his hands a little with excess of emotion, exclaimed, " Oh, perfect! perfect!"

"And OUie, I told you so !" he added, eagerly. "She is tall enough to wear satin! She shall have the pale blue Empire gown — she shall have the pale blue Empire gown if I have to pay for it myself! And oh, what times we shall have with tidat hair! And the figure — Reval will simply go wild !"

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So Reggie prattled on, with his airy grace; he took her hand and studied it, and then turned her about to survey her figure, while Alice blushed and strove to laugh to hide her embarrassment. "My dear Miss Montague," he exclaimed, "I bring all Gotham and lay it at your feet! OUie, your battle is won! Won without firing a shot! I know the very man for her — his father is dying, and he will have four millions in Transcontinental alone. And he is as handsome as Antinous and as fascinating as Don Juan! Allans ! we may as well begin with the trousseau this afternoon!"

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CHAPTER III

OLIVER was not rooming with them; he had his own quarters at the club, which he did not wish to leave. But the next morning, about twenty minutes after the hour he had named, he was at the door, and Montague went down.

Oliver's car was an imported French racer. It had only two seats, open in front, with a rumble behind for the mechanic. It was long and low and rakish, a most wicked-looking object; whenever it stopped on the street a crowd gathered to stare at it. Oliver was clad in a black bearskin coat, covering his feet, and with cap and gloves to match; he wore goggles, pushed up over his forehead. A similar costume lay ready in his brother's seat.