"I had the honour of making madame's acquaintance in New York," said Schowalski, bowing. "Really," replied Mrs. W. G. van der Leyd Smythe, "when was that?" "Why, two years ago in New York, in your drawing-room, where I had the honour of playing." "That's true--I think I remember--in January 1896; yes, yes--delighted to meet you again, Mr. ... I never can remember names--what is his name again?" asked she of Dora. Schowalski heard no more. He bowed, shook hands with a few friends and disappeared. "Schowalski is one of the greatest pianists of the day," said Dora. "I know, I know," said the lady with the string of names, "but what impertinence to enter into conversation with your guests, as if he had been invited. Upon my word, the effrontery of these musicians!" She followed him with her eyes as she stared through a pair of long-handled glasses, that are a weapon of offence in the fingers of some women. "Well, to be sure," she cried, "if he isn't shaking hands with Lady Gampton now! My dear Mrs. Grantham, in New York we do not entertain musicians, we engage them to entertain us--we pay them and we are quits." "My dear Mrs. Van der Leyd Smith"-- "Smythe," said the lady, correcting Dora. "Excuse me, I never can remember names. In England, artists like Schowalski are received by the aristocracy and even at Court. Perhaps that makes them so bold as to think they may be fit to associate with the aristocracy of New York." "Take that," she said to herself. The magnificent New Yorker fanned herself, smiled a little awry, and went to join the group which held her daughter, the Countess of Gampton. Lorimer had not lost a word of the conversation. He would fain have cried "Bravo." "For a _débutante_," said he, "you are going strong--that was promising." "My dear Gerald, I feel that I am getting spiteful--I shall bite soon." Just at this moment, quite near the door, she perceived a lady taking notes. She had already noticed her before--this person who drew up every now and then near certain groups, carefully studied the dresses, and looked up and down the people whom she did not seem to know. "Do tell me," Dora said to Lorimer, "who is that woman who puzzles me so? What is she doing? She seems to be taking notes; just now she was making little sketches--she is an artist, no doubt." "How innocent you are!" cried Lorimer, laughing loudly. "Yes, she is an artist, if you will--who works for some fashion paper--or a lady reporter taking notes for a society paper." "But I do not know her," said Dora; "I am perfectly sure I never asked her here." "You, no; but perhaps someone else. For that matter reporters find their way pretty nearly everywhere without invitation. It is their calling. This one is taking notes, to publish in her paper an account of your party." "But it is an insult," cried Dora; "I wish they would leave me alone. I don't want accounts in papers--my house is private."