“She answered me strangely,” said the girl. “She’s tall, and very stately, and I was a little bit afraid of her. She said, ‘You’ll get used to it. Everybody you know will be doing it, and if you try to do differently they’ll take offence; and you won’t have the courage to do without friends. You’ll be meaning every day to stop, but you never will, and you’ll go on until you die.’” “What did you say to that?” “Nothing,” answered Alice. “Just then Mrs. Landis came in, and Miss Hegan went away.” “Miss Hegan?” echoed Montague. “Yes,” said the other. “That’s her name—Laura Hegan. Have you met her?” CHAPTER VIII. The Horse Show was held in Madison Square Garden, a building occupying a whole city block. It seemed to Montague that during the four days he attended he was introduced to enough people to fill it to the doors. Each one of the exquisite ladies and gentlemen extended to him a delicately gloved hand, and remarked what perfect weather they were having, and asked him how long he had been in New York, and what he thought of it. Then they would talk about the horses, and about the people who were present, and what they had on. He saw little of his brother, who was squiring the Walling ladies most of the time; and Alice, too, was generally separated from him and taken care of by others. Yet he was never alone—there was always some young matron ready to lead him to her carriage and whisk him away to lunch or dinner. Many times he wondered why people should be so kind to him, a stranger, and one who could do nothing for them in return. Mrs. Billy Alden undertook to explain it to him, one afternoon, as he sat in her box. There had to be some people to enjoy, it appeared, or there would be no fun in the game. “Everything is new and strange to you,” said she, “and you’re delicious and refreshing; you make these women think perhaps they oughtn’t to be so bored after all! Here’s a woman who’s bought a great painting; she’s told that it’s great, but she doesn’t understand it herself—all she knows is that it cost her a hundred thousand dollars. And now you come along, and to you it’s really a painting—and don’t you see how gratifying that is to her?” “Oliver is always telling me it’s bad form to admire,” said the man, laughing. “Yes?” said the other. “Well, don’t you let that brother of yours spoil you. There are more than enough of _blasé_ people in town—you be yourself.” He appreciated the compliment, but added, “I’m afraid that when the novelty is worn off, people will be tired of me.”