“Clar to goodness, Marse George, you is a sight for sore eyes,” cried Malachi, unhooking the clasp of the velvet collar and helping him off with his cloak. “I ain't never seen ye looking spryer! Yes, sah, Marse Richard's inside and he'll be mighty glad ye come. Yes--jedge--jes's soon as I--Dat's it, mistis--I'll take dat shawl--No, sah, Marse Richard ain't begun yit. Dis way, ladies,” and so it had gone on since the opening rat-a-tat-tat on the old brass knocker had announced the arrival of the first guest. Nor was there any question that everybody who could by any possibility have availed themselves of Richard's invitation had put in an appearance. Most of the men from the club known to these pages were present, together with their wives and children--those who were old enough to sit up late; and Nathan Gill, without his flute this time, but with ears wide open--he was beginning to get gray, was Nathan, although he wouldn't admit it; and Miss Virginia Clendenning in high waist and voluminous skirts, fluffy side curls, and a new gold chain for her eyeglasses--gold rims, too, of course--not to mention the Murdochs, Stirlings, Gatchells, Captain Warfield and his daughter, Bowdoin, and Purviance. They were all there; everybody, in fact, who could squeeze inside the drawing-room; while those who couldn't filled the hall and even the stairs--wherever Richard's voice could be heard. St. George edged into the packed room, swept his glance over the throng, and made his way through the laughing groups, greeting every one right and left, old and young, as he moved--a kiss here on the upturned cheek of some pretty girl whom he had carried in his arms when a baby; a caressing pat of approbation on some young gallant's shoulder; a bend of the head in respectful homage to those he knew but slightly--the Baroness de Trobiand, Mrs. Cheston's friend, being one of them; a hearty hand held out to the men who had been away for the summer--interrupted now and then by some such sally from a young bride as--“Oh, you mean Uncle George! No--I'm not going to love you any more! You promised you would come to my party and you didn't, and my cotillon was all spoiled!” or a--“Why, Temple, you dear man!-I'm so glad to see you! Don't forget my dinner on Thursday. The Secretary is coming and I want you to sit between him and Lord Atherton”--a sort of triumphal procession, really--until he reached the end of the room and stood at Kate's side.