They came to the old family mansion and rang the bell, and the solemn butler ushered them past the grand staircase and into the front reception-room to wait. Perhaps five minutes later he came in and rolled back the doors, and they stood up, and beheld a withered old lady, nearly eighty years of age, bedecked with diamonds and seated upon a sort of throne. They approached, and Oliver introduced them, and the old lady held out a lifeless hand; and then they sat down. Mrs. Devon asked them a few questions as to how much of New York they had seen, and how they liked it, and whom they had met; but most of the time she simply looked them over, and left the making of conversation to Oliver. As for Montague, he sat, feeling perplexed and uncomfortable, and wondering, deep down in him, whether it could really be America in which this was happening. “You see,” Oliver explained to them, when they were seated in their carriage again, “her mind is failing, and it’s really quite difficult for her to receive.” “I’m glad I don’t have to call on her more than once,” was Alice’s comment. “When do we know the verdict?” “When you get a card marked ‘Mrs. Devon at home,’” said Oliver. And he went on to tell them about the war which had shaken Society long ago, when the mighty dame had asserted her right to be “Mrs. Devon,” and the only “Mrs. Devon.” He told them also about her wonderful dinner-set of china, which had cost thirty thousand dollars, and was as fragile as a humming-bird’s wing. Each piece bore her crest, and she had a china expert to attend to washing and packing it—no common hand was ever allowed to touch it. He told them, also, how Mrs. Devon’s housekeeper had wrestled for so long, trying to teach the maids to arrange the furniture in the great reception-rooms precisely as the mistress ordered; until finally a complete set of photographs had been taken, so that the maids might do their work by chart. Alice went back to the hotel, for Mrs. Robbie Walling was to call and take her home to lunch; and Montague and his brother strolled round to Reggie Mann’s apartments, to report upon their visit. Reggie received them in a pair of pink silk pyjamas, decorated with ribbons and bows, and with silk-embroidered slippers, set with pearls—a present from a feminine adorer. Montague noticed, to his dismay, that the little man wore a gold bracelet upon one arm! He explained that he had led a cotillion the night before—or rather this morning; he had got home at five o’clock. He looked quite white and tired, and there were the remains of a breakfast of brandy-and-soda on the table. “Did you see the old girl?” he asked. “And how does she hold up?” “She’s game,” said Oliver. “I had the devil’s own time getting you in,” said the other. “It’s getting harder every day.”