Porcellis drew down the corners of his sensitive mouth.
"It is," he said again.
They went toward the ballroom.
A man-servant with those brief side-whiskers which, twenty years before, were used to proclaim the millionaire, stood splendidly against the crush about the doorway. He bent to each newcomer and secured a name, which, turning his head, but not moving his body, he then shouted, from an impassive face, into the ballroom.
Porcellis nodded to him familiarly
"Good-evening, James," he said.
"Good-evening, Mr. Porcellis. And the other gentleman, sir?"
"Mr. Huber," said Porcellis with careful distinctness.
The servant turned his head toward the crowd in the room behind him.
"Mr. Porcellis!" he cried, and then, as if it were an afterthought: "Mr. Urer!"