There had been almost no rioting at night. All the disturbance was during the day; but disjointed groups--sometimes even crowds--would pass occasionally along the street after nightfall with more or less tumult of noise and loud talking. There was a good deal of discussion as to whether it was safe for ladies to be out at night at such a time, but, in spite of the possible danger, nearly every one who had been asked to the Dorman-Websters' went. It was, indeed, a magnificent affair, and, in spite of the excitement of the riots, a great deal of space was given to it in the newspapers. It was said that Madame Antonini had been paid a thousand dollars to come on from the West, where she was then singing, to appear in the two numbers of the opening _musicale_. She sang to the accompaniment of a harpsichord that had belonged to a foreign queen, and which Dorman-Webster had, for that especial purpose, added to his famous collection of historical musical instruments of all ages. One of the features of the affair was the massive decoration of the stair-rails from the ground to the third floor with red-and-white rose-buds that were said by the newspapers to have cost two dollars each. Nearly everybody of the truly Roman caste was there. Gilderman went, but he had not been feeling well, and so had only stayed out the _musicale_, coming away before the supper, for the sake of a few minutes' midnight chat with his wife, who had promised, with the nurse's consent, to be sitting up when he returned. She was much interested in all that he had to tell her, but she appeared tired, and he did not stay very long. As it was still early he went around to the club. The Dorman-Webster entertainment had nearly depleted the "Romans," and Gilderman sauntered about with that lonely feeling that one always has in being at some place when one knows that one's friends are somewhere else. He had found Pilate sitting in the reading-room with a litter of papers spread around him. Pilate was not always asked to such entertainments as that of the Dorman-Websters'. He used to smile about it sometimes with his sphinx-like smile, but perhaps he would have been more than human had he not felt the fact of being left out of such lists of invitations. He looked up as Gilderman came in. "Why, Mr. Gilderman," he said, "how is it you're not at the silver wedding?" "I was there," said Gilderman, "but I did not stay." "Tired of it?" "Oh no; not at all." Then Pilate began again: "By-the-way, Mr. Gilderman, I was very sorry that I did not feel justified in calling out the troops last Sunday, as the bishop wanted me to do. I hope he understood my position."