The gaping proletariate, seeing such graciousness, recognized the aristocracy of the democracy and were cheering madly. An aristocracy whose sense of humor makes it kindly is lasting. "Them's real swells!" shrieked a red-headed girl who carried a large bandbox. More cheers. At that moment Grace Goodchild, impelled by an irresistible curiosity appeared at her door. "_There she is!_ Hooray!" proudly shrieked two hundred and eighteen potential Socialists, making room for Bishop Phillipson. Hoping they were not too late for the wedding, the throngs clapped furiously. Even at marriages there are encore fiends. "How do you do, my child?" inquired the Bishop, with a tolerant smile. "Please turn around, Bishop!" shrieked the _Journal_ artist. He was paid by the portrait. The Bishop did so, smiled benignantly, saw the shutter open and close, and then said, deprecatingly: "I do not wish my picture taken, sir." "No, sir. Will you give us another shot, Bishop?" The reverend gentleman waited a moment and then shook his head and turned his back rebukingly on the photographers, who a second time had not respected his wishes. "Such is fame, Bishop Phillipson," Grace told him, with a smile. "Reflected greatness, rather," said the Bishop, with his courtly kindliness. "It's an infernal outrage!" came in a husky voice from the house. "It's papa. He doesn't understand--" "He and I are too old, I fear," smiled the Bishop, mournfully. "And how is H. R., my dear?" She shook her head and frowned. Always that person! "A most remarkable young man," pursued the Bishop, congratulatorily. He had received three and one-half bushels of letters from utter strangers, commending his practical Christianity and his highly intelligent plan for feeding the hungry. Five vestry-men also had expressed their gratification that his name headed the list of the men who had made New York the greatest city of the hemisphere. It looked as though the hungry were to be fed. The Bishop and Grace moved out of the doorway to allow the reporters to pass, and were themselves about to enter the house when a sound of cheering made them halt in their tracks. A vast crowd was walking up the Avenue. In the van marched one of H. R.'s free sandwiches. He was dressed in crimson broadcloth (from Morton & Co. as per the next morning's accounts) and he wore a shining silk hat (Fox Brothers, as per same in the _Times_, _Herald_, and _Tribune_). The sandwich-board was a most gorgeous affair--a shield of burnished gold (by Cellini & Co., Florentine frame-makers) on which were the arms of the City of New York in heraldic colors. Beneath, in six-inch letters of glittering turquoise enamel, was: [Illustration: THE FIRST OF THE PERFECTLY BEAUTIFUL 100 IS GRACE GOODCHILD OF 777 FIFTH AVENUE.] In front of the Goodchild mansion the stalwart free sandwich stopped, faced Miss Goodchild, raised his glittering top-hat, and held it in the air, Beau Brummelesquely.