"Only the smartest people," she answered, stirring her tea meditatively. "But it's a splendid idea. I am so afraid it will get in the papers and make a dreadful stir all over the country. I intend to write to the editors particularly and ask them not to print it. The outsiders are always so horrid, anyway. They can do all kinds of foolish things and nobody ever says a word, but the minute _we_ have something a little original, we never hear the end of it. Why, I remember years ago, when we were Baptists, going to church sociables, and nothing could be more absurd than an apron-and-necktie party, but nothing was ever heard of them outside of the church itself. If we were Presbyterians, and lived on Lenox Avenue, no one would print anything about a beach-party we gave in our house on New Year's eve, or something foolish like that. But now, simply because we are Episcopalians and have a donkey-dinner in Newport, I know I shall be mentioned in sermons and prayers all over the country. It is dreadful!" "But, Mrs. Radigan," said I, "if you will leave the wings and get out in the middle of the stage and stand in the lime-light, you must expect to have some hissing from the audience." "But we never get any applause," said she, with a touch of resentment in her voice. "Because," said I, "all those in the body of the house want to be on the stage themselves--a strange condition, but one that really exists. And as they are not in the company, they find comfort in picking flaws in the acting and the actors. Now, for instance, a donkey-party for the benefit of your old Baptist church would not excite any comment at all." "But at Newport it will make a sensation," she cried, clasping her hands and smiling. "Oh, it will be perfectly dreadful!" I had to smile too. Mrs. Radigan is a wonderfully clever woman in a social way. She seems instinctively to do the most startling thing at the right time, and to have it all published in just the right place. I expect that within a year she will be known as New York's grandest dame, and that to be admitted to her house will be to be marked socially sterling. But Society is not an aristocracy. It is the purest democracy. The Radigans, for example, could never in the world have got in the smart set at Harvard or Princeton. They do not know enough. But here is Mrs. Radigan, whose father-in-law laid the foundation of a great fortune in pool-rooms, whose father lived a useful life between his home and his distillery; here is Mrs. Radigan, an immigrant from Kansas City, actually planning donkey-dinners. To what heights may she not soar? I sat sipping tea and silently admiring this remarkable woman. But she never lets you rest with one surprise. "Have you heard about Pearl?" she asked suddenly. "Surely, Miss Veal is not ill?" I exclaimed, in some alarm. "Oh, no--engaged," Mrs. Radigan replied laughing. "Engaged to Plumstone Smith."