"We can't run no risks," said the big, loud voice below. "It's past the hour now."
Stalk went down with a five-dollar bill and got an hour's grace, but fifteen minutes was all that was really needed, for by that time Mrs. Williegilt had led my guests on the retreat.
Mrs. Radigan's Costume-ball
I have just been going over the newspaper accounts of the Radigans' costume-ball, and I must say that the columns and columns devoted to it, speak well for my friends' standing in Society. It is generally conceded that New York has never before seen such a lavish affair, and the estimates of its cost go from $50,000 up. Yet these do not consider the new house, which was built primarily as a place of entertainment, not as a home; so part of the million spent there should be charged against the dance. The whole affair was colossal. But the Radigans are paying the bills without a word, for they are more than satisfied with the advertising they have received. Their position is now absolutely established, and nothing can shake them out of smart society but the loss of their money.
The new house was a dream. Young Mr. Coppe, of Coppe & Coppe, the architects, had arranged all the decorations, and he showed rare taste and ingenuity, for to contrive the surroundings for an Indian dance was no simple matter. But he worked it out cleverly. Entering the great hall, the guests left civilization behind them and stood in a giant wigwam. It was a little out of shape, because of the proportions of the room, but the illusion was well maintained by the arrangement of poles and hides, with decorations of bows, arrows, and imitation scalps hanging everywhere. Of course it was necessary to leave this for a moment and plunge into the civilization of the dressing-rooms, where a score of servants costumed like trappers were in attendance. But when your costume was arranged you plunged into the wild again, passing through the wigwam, up the broad stairway, past the famous Velasquez and the Fatuous portrait of Mrs. Radigan and her child, pausing in the foyer, a charming forest with a pool full of goldfish in the centre, on into the wigwam, once the portrait-gallery, where Mrs. Radigan received her guests.
Mrs. Radigan was superb. Mrs. Radigan was unique. Mrs. Radigan was lovely. She was Pocahontas, and that there should be not the slightest color of scandal she made Radigan appear as Captain John Smith, so when he wandered up, dragging his long rifle, she could with propriety acknowledge him as her husband. I do not know what the real Pocahontas looked like, but if she was anything like Mrs. Radigan she must have been capable of any heroism. Mrs. Radigan is massive. Her hair, black, flowing down over her shoulders, interworked with flowers and feathers, gave her in the higher altitudes the appearance of Hamlet's unhappy love. Her gown might be described as that of a nouveau-riche Indian maiden, for the famous Radigan pearls put the bead-work to sleep, speaking figuratively; and the rather short skirt gave a glimpse of open-work silks that might have been a gift from her Majesty of England.