“Ady, here is Mrs. Stevans. She’s been looking for you. Why are you hid off here? You mustn’t flirt in the corners when you have friends to look after.”
Mrs. Stevans was one of the most distinguished guests; Mrs. Wilbur introduced Erard to her.
“The Mr. Erard?” Mrs. Stevans beamed at him from the entrenchment of her broad, uncovered shoulders and bosom. He looked positively dapper and slim in comparison. “You are coming to tell us all about pictures.”
“Not so bad as that,” Erard protested.
“Why, it’s the Mr. Erard who painted your picture, Ady!” Mrs. Anthon exclaimed.
“You must meet some of them and talk with them,” Mrs. Wilbur said quickly, to extricate him, and she led the group back to the large rooms.
“I shall have you to dinner, and you must tell me all about my naughty friend, Mrs. Warmister,” Mrs. Stevans shot at Erard as he moved away. Then he found himself navigated about, presented to this important person and that. The men received him with grave empressement. They took it for granted that “he was a leading light in his line,” and though they were not familiar with that line, they were propitious to any prophet who had achieved success in it. In a remote corner Erard bumped against Mr. Sebastian Anthon.
“So you’re back in America at last.” The old man greeted him cordially, holding out a thin, trembling hand. “For long?”
“A few months,” Erard replied patronizingly; “to get an idea what it is like. A vacation, you know, after my book.”
“Ah, yes,” the old man murmured thoughtfully. “It’s mostly books now, isn’t it? instead of pictures.”