“Oh!” exclaimed the other, opening his eyes, “I see! Is that the way you make money?”
“It’s one of the ways we save it,” said Oliver. “It comes to the same thing.”
“Do people know it?”
“Why, of course. Why not?”
“I don’t know,” said Montague. “It sounds a little queer.”
“Nothing of the kind,” said Oliver. “Some of the best people in New York do it. Strangers come to the city, and they want to go to the right places, and they ask me, and I send them. Or take Robbie Walling, who keeps up five or six establishments, and spends several millions a year. He can’t see to it all personally—if he did, he’d never do anything else. Why shouldn’t he ask a friend to attend to things for him? Or again, a new shop opens, and they want Mrs. Walling’s trade for the sake of the advertising, and they offer her a discount and me a commission. Why shouldn’t I get her to try them?”
“It’s quite intricate,” commented the other. “The stores have more than one price, then?”
“They have as many prices as they have customers,” was the answer. “Why shouldn’t they? New York is full of raw rich people who value things by what they pay. And why shouldn’t they pay high and be happy? That opera-cloak that Alice has—Reval promised it to me for two thousand, and I’ll wager you she’d charge some woman from Butte, Montana, thirty-five hundred for one just like it.”
Montague got up suddenly. “Stop,” he said, waving his hands. “You take all the bloom off the butterfly’s wings!”
He asked where they were going that evening, and Oliver said that they were invited to an informal dinner-party at Mrs. Winnie Duval’s. Mrs. Winnie was the young widow who had recently married the founder of the great banking-house of Puval and Co.—so Oliver explained; she was a chum of his, and they would meet an interesting set there. She was going to invite her cousin, Charlie Carter—she wanted him to meet Alice. “Mrs. Winnie’s always plotting to get Charlie to settle down,” said Oliver, with a merry laugh.
He telephoned for his man to bring over his clothes, and he and his brother dressed. Then Alice came in, looking like the goddess of the dawn in the gorgeous rose-coloured gown. The colour in her cheeks was even brighter than usual; for she was staggered to find how low the gown was cut, and was afraid she was committing a faux pas. “Tell me about it,” she stammered. “Mammy Lucy says I’m surely supposed to wear some lace, or a bouquet.”
“Mammy Lucy isn’t a Paris costumier,” said Oliver, much amused. “Dear me—wait until you have seen Mrs. Winnie!”
Mrs. Winnie had kindly sent her limousine car for them, and it stood throbbing in front of the hotel-entrance, its acetylenes streaming far up the street. Mrs. Winnie’s home was on Fifth Avenue, fronting the park. It occupied half a block, and had cost two millions to build and furnish. It was known as the “Snow Palace,” being all of white marble.
At the curb a man in livery opened the door of the car, and in the vestibule another man in livery bowed the way. Lined up just inside the door was a corps of imposing personages, clad in scarlet waistcoats and velvet knee-breeches, with powdered wigs, and gold buttons, and gold buckles on their patent-leather pumps. These splendid creatures took their wraps, and then presented to Montague and Oliver a bouquet of flowers upon a silver salver, and upon another salver a tiny envelope bearing the name of their partner at this strictly “informal” dinner-party. Then the functionaries stood out of the way and permitted them to view the dazzling splendour of the entrance hall of the Snow Palace. There was a great marble staircase running up from the centre of the hall, with a carved marble gallery above, and a marble fireplace below. To decorate this mansion a real palace in the Punjab had been bought outright and plundered; there were mosaics of jade, and wonderful black marble, and rare woods, and strange and perplexing carvings.
The head butler stood at the entrance to the salon, pronouncing their names; and just inside was Mrs. Winnie.
Montague never forgot that first vision of her; she might have been a real princess out of the palace in the Punjab. She was a brunette, rich-coloured, full-throated and deep-bosomed, with scarlet lips, and black hair and eyes. She wore a court-gown of cloth of silver, with white kid shoes embroidered with jewelled flowers. All her life she had been collecting large turquoises, and these she had made into a tiara, and a neck ornament spreading over her chest, and a stomacher. Each of these stones was mounted with diamonds, and set upon a slender wire. So as she moved they quivered and shimmered, and the effect was dazzling, barbaric.
She must have seen that Montague was staggered, for she gave him a little extra pressure of the hand, and said, “I’m so glad you came. Ollie has told me all about you.” Her voice was soft and melting, not so forbidding as her garb.
Montague ran the gauntlet of the other guests: Charlie Carter, a beautiful, dark-haired boy, having the features of a Greek god, but a sallow and unpleasant complexion; Major “Bob” Venable, a stout little gentleman with a red face and a heavy jowl; Mrs. Frank Landis, a merry-eyed young widow with pink cheeks and auburn hair; Willie Davis, who had been a famous half-back, and was now junior partner in the banking-house; and two young married couples, whose names Montague missed.
The name written on his card was Mrs. Alden. She came in just after him—a matron of about fifty, of vigorous aspect and ample figure, approaching what he had not yet learned to call embonpoint. She wore brocade, as became a grave dowager, and upon her ample bosom there lay an ornament the size of a man’s hand, and made wholly out of blazing diamonds—the most imposing affair that Montague had ever laid eyes upon. She gave him her hand to shake, and made no attempt to disguise the fact that she was looking him over in the meantime.
“Madam, dinner is served,” said the stately butler; and the glittering procession moved into the dining-room—a huge state apartment, finished in some lustrous jet-black wood, and with great panel paintings illustrating the Romaunt de la Rose. The table was covered with a cloth of French embroidery, and gleaming with its load of crystal and gold plate. At either end there were huge candlesticks of solid gold, and in the centre a mound of orchids and lilies of the valley, matching in colour the shades of the candelabra and the daintily painted menu cards.
“You are fortunate in coming to New York late in life,” Mrs. Alden was saying to him. “Most of our young men are tired out before they have sense enough to enjoy anything. Take my advice and look about you—don’t let that lively brother of yours set the pace for you.”
In front of Mrs. Alden there was a decanter of Scotch whisky. “Will you have some?” she asked, as she took it up.
“No, I thank you,” said he, and then wondered if perhaps he should not have said yes, as he watched the other select the largest of the half-dozen wine-glasses clustered at her place, and pour herself out a generous libation.
“Have you seen much of the city?” she asked, as she tossed it off—without as much as a quiver of an eyelash.
“No,” said he. “They have not given me much time. They took me off to the country—to the Robert Wallings’.”
“Ah,” said Mrs. Alden; and Montague, struggling to make conversation, inquired, “Do you know Mr. Walling?”
“Quite well,” said the other, placidly. “I used to be a Walling myself, you know.”
“Oh,” said Montague, taken aback; and then added, “Before you were married?”
“No,” said Mrs. Alden, more placidly than ever, “before I was divorced.”
There was a dead silence, and Montague sat gasping to catch his breath. Then suddenly he heard a faint subdued chuckle, which grew into open laughter; and he stole a glance at Mrs. Alden, and saw that her eyes were twinkling; and then he began to laugh himself. They laughed together, so merrily that others at the table began to look at them in perplexity.