He was a mystery which Montague could not solve.  To be sure he was rich, and spent his money like water; but then there was no scarcity of money in this crowd.  Montague found himself wondering whether he was there because Mrs. De Graffenried and her friends liked to have somebody they could snub and wipe their feet upon.  His eye ran down the row of people sitting at the table, and the contrast between them and Gamble was an amusing one.  Mrs. De Graffenried was fond of the society of young people, and most of her guests were of the second or even the third generation.  The man from Pittsburg seemed to be the only one there who had made his own money, and who bore the impress of the money struggle upon him.  Montague smiled at the thought.  He seemed the very incarnation of the spirit of oil; he was gross and unpleasant, while in the others the oil had been refined to a delicate perfume.  Yet somehow he seemed the most human person there.  No doubt he was crudely egotistical; and yet, if he was interested in himself, he was also interested in other people, while among Mrs. De Graffenried’s intimates it was a sign of vulgarity to be interested in anything.

He seemed to have taken quite a fancy to Montague, for reasons best known to himself.  He came up to him again, after the luncheon.  “This is the first time you’ve been here, Oliver tells me,” said he.

Montague assented, and the other added:  “You’d better come and let me show you the town.  I have my car here.”

Montague had no engagement, and no excuse handy.  “It’s very good of you—­” he began.

“All right,” said Gamble.  “Come on.”

And he took him out and seated him in his huge red touring-car, which had a seat expressly built for its owner, not too deep, and very low, so that his fat little legs would reach the floor.

Gamble settled back in the cushions with a sigh.  “Rum sort of a place this, ain’t it?” said he.

“It’s interesting for a short visit,” said Montague.

“You can count me out of it,” said the other.  “I like to spend my summers in a place where I can take my coat off.  And I prefer beer to champagne in hot weather, anyhow.”

Montague did not reply.

“Such an ungodly lot of snobs a fellow does meet!” remarked his host, cheerily.  “They have a fine time making fun of me—­it amuses them, and I don’t mind.  Sometimes it does make you mad, though; you feel you’d like to make them swallow you, anyway.  But then you think, What’s the use of going after something you don’t want, just because other people say you can’t have it?”

It was on Montague’s lips to ask, “Then why do you come here?” But he forbore.

The car sped on down the stately driveway, and his companion proceeded to point out the mansions and the people, and to discuss them in his own peculiar style.

“See that yellow brick house in there,” said he.  “That belongs to Allis, the railroad man.  He used to live in Pittsburg, and I remember him thirty years ago, when he had one carriage for his three babies, and pushed them himself, by thunder.  He was glad to borrow money from me then, but now he looks the other way when I go by.