It was the crush hour at Sherry's. A steady stream of men and women in smart toilettes--the smartest the town afforded--had flowed in under the street awning, through the doorway guarded by flunkeys, past the dressing-rooms and coat-racks, and were now banked up in the spacious hall waiting for tables, the men standing about, the women resting on the chairs and divans listening to the music of the Hungarian band or chatting with one another. The two cafés were full--had been since seven o'clock, every table being occupied except two. One of these had been reserved that morning by my dear friend Marny, the distinguished painter of portraits--I being his guest--and the other, so the head-waiter told us, awaited the arrival of Mr. John Stirling, who would entertain a party of six. When Marny was a poor devil of an illustrator, and worked for the funny column of the weekly papers--we had studios in the same building--we used to dine at Porcelli's, the price of the two meals equalling the value of one American trade dollar, and including one bottle of vin ordinaire. Now that Marny wears a ribbon in his button-hole, has a suite of rooms that look like a museum, man-servants and maid-servants, including an English butler whose principal business is to see that Marny is not disturbed, a line of carriages before his door on his reception days, and refuses two portraits a week at his own prices--we sometimes dine at Sherry's. As I am still a staid old landscape painter living up three flights of stairs with no one to wait on me but myself and the ten-year-old daughter of the janitor, I must admit that these occasional forays into the whirl of fashionable life afford me not only infinite enjoyment, but add greatly to my knowledge of human nature. As we followed the waiter into the café, a group of half a dozen men, all in full dress, emerged from a side room and preceded us into the restaurant, led by a handsome young fellow of thirty. The next moment they grouped themselves about the other reserved table, the young fellow seating his guests himself, drawing out each chair with some remark that kept the whole party laughing. When we had settled into our own chairs, and my host had spread his napkin and looked about him, the young fellow nodded his head at Marny, clasped his two hands together, shook them together heartily, and followed this substitute for a closer welcome by kissing his hand at him. Marny returned the courtesy by a similar handshake, and bending his head said in a low voice, "The Rajah must be in luck to-night." "Who?" I asked. My acquaintance with foreign potentates is necessarily limited. "The Rajah--Jack Stirling. Take a look at him. You'll never see his match; nobody has yet."