All that was material for thought. It was all true—there was no question about that. It seemed to be the rule that whenever you questioned a tale of the extravagances of New York, you would hear the next day of something several times more startling. Montague was staggered at the idea of a two-hundred-thousand-dollar fur coat; and yet not long afterward there arrived in the city a titled Englishwoman, who owned a coat worth a million dollars, which hard-headed insurance companies had insured for half a million. It was made of the soft plumage of rare Hawaiian birds, and had taken twenty years to make; each feather was crescent-shaped, and there were wonderful designs in crimson and gold and black. Every day in the casual conversation of your acquaintances you heard of similar incredible things; a tiny antique Persian rug, which could be folded into an overcoat pocket, for ten thousand dollars; a set of five “art fans,” each blade painted by a famous artist and costing forty-three thousand dollars; a crystal cup for eighty thousand; an _edition de luxe_ of the works of Dickens for a hundred thousand; a ruby, the size of a pigeon’s egg, for three hundred thousand. In some of these great New York palaces there were fountains which cost a hundred dollars a minute to run; and in the harbour there were yachts which cost twenty thousand a month to keep in commission. And that same day, as it chanced, he learned of a brand-new kind of squandering. He went home to lunch with Mrs. Winnie Duval, and there met Mrs. Caroline Smythe, with whom he had talked at Castle Havens. Mrs. Smythe, whose husband had been a well-known Wall Street plunger, was soft and mushy, and very gushing in manner; and she asked him to come home to dinner with her, adding, “I’ll introduce you to my babies.” From what Montague had so far seen, he judged that babies played a very small part in the lives of the women of Society; and so he was interested, and asked, “How many have you?” “Only two, in town,” said Mrs. Smythe. “I’ve just come up, you see.” “How old are they?” he inquired politely; and when the lady added, “About two years,” he asked, “Won’t they be in bed by dinner time?” “Oh my, no!” said Mrs. Smythe. “The dear little lambs wait up for me. I always find them scratching at my chamber door and wagging their little tails.”