“Carries a few shares?” echoed Montague, and Oliver explained the procedure. This was one of the customs which had grown up in a community where people did not have to earn their money. The recipient of the favour put up nothing and took no risks; but the other person was supposed to buy some stock for him, and then, when the stock went up, he would send a cheque for the “profits.” Many a man who would have resented a direct offer of money, would assent pleasantly when a powerful friend offered to “carry a hundred shares for him.” This was the way one offered a tip in the big world; it was useful in the case of newspaper men, whose good opinion of a stock was desired, or of politicians and legislators, whose votes might help its fortunes. When one expected to get into Society, one must be prepared to strew such tips about him. “Of course,” added Oliver, “what the family would really like me to do is to get the Robbie Wallings to take them up. I suppose I could get round half a million of them if I could manage that.” To all of which Montague replied, “I see.” A great light had dawned upon him. So _that_ was the way it was managed! That was why one paid thirty thousand a year for one’s apartments, and thirty thousand more for a girl’s clothes! No wonder it was better to spend Christmas week at the Eldridge Devons than to labour at one’s law books! “One more question,” Montague went on. “Why are you introducing me to them?” “Well,” his brother answered, “it won’t hurt you; you’ll find it amusing. You see, they’d heard I had a brother; and they asked me to bring you. I couldn’t keep you hidden for ever, could I?” All this was while they were driving up town. The Evanses’ place was on Riverside Drive; and when Montague got out of the cab and saw it looming up in the semi-darkness, he emitted an exclamation of wonder. It was as big as a jail! “Oh, yes, they’ve got room enough,” said Oliver, with a laugh. “I put this deal through for them—it’s the old Lamson palace, you know.” They had the room; and likewise they had all the trappings of snobbery—Montague took that fact in at a glance. There were knee-breeches and scarlet facings and gold braid—marble balconies and fireplaces and fountains—French masters and real Flemish tapestry. The staircase of their palace was a winding one, and there was a white velvet carpet which had been specially woven for it, and had to be changed frequently; at the top of it was a white cashmere rug which had a pedigree of six centuries—and so on. And then came the family: this tall, raw-boned, gigantic man, with weather-tanned face and straggling grey moustache—this was Jack Evans; and Mrs. Evans, short and pudgy, but with a kindly face, and not too many diamonds; and the Misses Evans,—stately and slender and perfectly arrayed. “Why, they’re all right!” was the thought that came to Montague.