Montague had come to take the Alden magnificence as a matter of course by this time, but he felt Lucy thrill with excitement at the vision of the Doge’s palace, with its black marble carvings and its lackeys in scarlet and gold.  Then came Mrs. Billy herself, resplendent in dark purple brocade, with a few ropes of pearls flung about her neck.  She was almost tall enough to look over the top of Lucy’s head, and she stood away a little so as to look at her comfortably.

“I tried to have Mrs. Winnie here for you,” she said to Montague, as she placed him at her right hand.  “But she was not able to come, so you will have to make out with me.”

“Have you many more beauties like that down in Mississippi?” she asked, when they were seated.  “If so, I don’t see why you came up here.”

“You like her, do you?” he asked.

“I like her looks,” said Mrs. Billy.  “Has she got any sense?  It is quite impossible to believe that she’s a widow.  She needs someone to take care of her just the same.”

“I will recommend her to your favour,” said Montague.  “I have been telling her about you.”

“What have you told her?” asked Mrs. Billy, serenely,—­“that I win too much money at bridge, and drink Scotch at dinner?” Then, seeing Montague blush furiously, she laughed.  “I know it is true.  I have caught you thinking it half a dozen times.”

And she reached out for the decanter which the butler had just placed in front of her, and proceeded to help herself to her opening glass.

Montague told her all about Lucy; and, in the meantime, he watched the latter, who sat near the centre of the table, talking with Stanley Ryder.  Montague had played bridge with this man once or twice at Mrs. Winnie’s, and he thought to himself that Lucy could hardly have met a man who would embody in himself more of the fascinations of the Metropolis.  Ryder was president of the Gotham Trust Company, an institution whose magnificent marble front was one of the sights of Fifth Avenue.  He was a man a trifle under fifty, tall and distinguished-looking, with an iron-grey mustache, and the manners of a diplomat.  He was not only a banker, he was also a man of culture; he had run away to sea in his youth, and he had travelled in every country of the world.  He was also a bit of an author, in an amateur way, and if there was any book which he had not dipped into, it was not a book of which one would be apt to hear in Society.  He could talk upon any subject, and a hostess who could secure Stanley Ryder for one of her dinner-parties generally counted upon a success.  “He doesn’t go out much, these busy days,” said Mrs. Billy.  “But I told him about your friend.”