The dining-room seemed to have been built in sections, rambling about on the summit of the cliff.  The side of it facing the water was all glass, and could be taken down.  The ceiling was a maze of streamers and Japanese lanterns, and here and there were orange-trees and palms and artificial streams and fountains.  Every table was crowded, it seemed; one was half-deafened by the clatter of plates, the voices and laughter, and the uproar of a negro orchestra of banjos, mandolins, and guitars.  Negro waiters flew here and there, and a huge, stout head-waiter, who was pirouetting and strutting, suddenly espied Oliver, and made for him with smiles of welcome.

“Yes, sir—­just come in, sir,” he said, and led the way down the room, to where, in a corner, a table had been set for sixteen or eighteen people.  There was a shout, “Here’s Ollie!”—­and a pounding of glasses and a chorus of welcome—­“Hello, Ollie!  You’re late, Ollie!  What’s the matter—­car broke down?”

Of the party, about half were men and half women.  Montague braced himself for the painful ordeal of being introduced to sixteen people in succession, but this was considerately spared him.  He shook hands with Robbie Walling, a tall and rather hollow-chested young man, with slight yellow moustaches; and with Mrs. Robbie, who bade him welcome, and presented him with the freedom of the company.

Then he found himself seated between two young ladies, with a waiter leaning over him to take his order for the drinks.  He said, a little hesitatingly, that he would like some whisky, as he was about frozen, upon which the girl on his right, remarked, “You’d better try a champagne cocktail—­you’ll get your results quicker.”  She added, to the waiter, “Bring a couple of them, and be quick about it.”

“You had a cold ride, no doubt, in that low car,” she went on, to Montague.  “What made you late?”

“We had some delays,” he answered.  “Once we thought we were arrested.”

“Arrested!” she exclaimed; and others took up the word, crying, “Oh, Ollie! tell us about it!”

Oliver told the tale, and meantime his brother had a chance to look about him.  All of the party were young—­he judged that he was the oldest person there.  They were not of the flashily dressed sort, but no one would have had to look twice to know that there was money in the crowd.  They had had their first round of drinks, and started in to enjoy themselves.  They were all intimates, calling each other by their first names.  Montague noticed that these names always ended in “ie,”—­there was Robbie and Freddie and Auggie and Clarrie and Bertie and Chappie; if their names could not be made to end properly, they had nicknames instead.

“Ollie” told how they had distanced the policeman; and Clarrie Mason (one of the younger sons of the once mighty railroad king) told of a similar feat which his car had performed.  And then the young lady who sat beside him told how a fat Irish woman had skipped out of their way as they rounded a corner, and stood and cursed them from the vantage-point of the sidewalk.