Outside the house, on Fifth Avenue, a crowd of people stood watching the long string of carriages, automobiles and taxi-cabs in line before the gate. The day, although fine, was cold and windy and an awning had been stretched from the portico to the curb to protect the guests from the weather. The crowd of curious sightseers grew larger as each moment other cabs and automobiles dashed up. A mounted policeman prevented the spectators from pressing too close and kept the way open for regular traffic, while Mr. Harmon's servants in powdered hair and knee-breeches received each newcomer.
"Gee! Get on to 'em guys wid der white wigs!" cried out a cheeky boy.
"What's all the fuss about?" inquired a bystander.
"Blessed if I know," replied the man curtly.
A well-dressed woman stopped and watched the scene with interest.
"Whose house is that?" she inquired of a policeman.
"John Harmon's, m'm," replied the officer of the law.
"The railroad man?" she asked, with growing interest.
"Yes," answered her informant. "Mr. Harmon's daughter was wrecked on the Atlanta, you know. She was reported drowned. Then they found her on a desert island. She's home to-day and they're giving a reception to all their friends in honor of her return."
In the splendid reception-room facing the Avenue rich with its gold and crimson furnishings, delicately frescoed ceilings, satin brocade hangings, priceless rugs, onyx tables and heavy red carpet, Grace was the center of an excited throng of women. Each fresh arrival literally fought her way through the crowd to get a glimpse of the heroine of the hour. There were murmurs of surprise and admiration on all sides as they caught sight of her.