collar and quaint neck-cloths of his fathers, but would
also have worn a dainty cue tied with a flowing black ribbon, always
supposing, of course, that his hair had held out, and, what is more
important, always supposing, that the wisp was long enough to hold on.

The one article, however, which, more than any other one thing in his
apartment, revealed his tastes and habits, was a long, wide, ample
mahogany desk, once the property of an ancestor, which stood under
the window in the front room. In this, ready to his hand, were drawers
little and big, full of miscellaneous papers and envelopes; pigeon-holes
crammed full of answered and unanswered notes, some with crests on them,
some with plain wax clinging to the flap of the broken envelopes; many
held together with the gum of the common world. Here, too, were bundles
of old letters tied with tape; piles of pamphlets, quaint trays holding
pens and pencils, and here too was always to be found, in summer or
in winter, a big vase full of roses or blossoms, or whatever was in
season--a luxury he never denied himself.

To this desk, then, Peter betook himself the moment he had hung his gray
surtout on its hook in the closet and disposed of his hat and umbrella.
This was his up-town office, really, and here his letters awaited him.

First came a notice of the next meeting of the Numismatic Society of
which he was an honored member; then a bill for his semi-annual dues at
the Century Club; next a delicately scented sheet inviting him to dine
with the Van Wormleys of Washington Square, to meet an English lord and
his lady, followed by a pressing letter to spend Sunday with friends
in the country. Then came a long letter from his sister, Miss Felicia
Grayson, who lived in the Genesee Valley and who came to New York every
winter for what she was pleased to call "The Season" (a very remarkable
old lady, this Miss Felicia Grayson, with a mind of her own, sections of
which she did not hesitate to ventilate when anybody crossed her or her
path, and of whom we shall hear more in these pages), together with the
usual assortment of bills and receipts, the whole an enlivening
record not only of Peter's daily life and range of taste, but of the
limitations of his purse as well.

One letter was reserved for the last. This he held in his hand until he
again ran his eye over the pile before him. It was from Holker Morris
the architect, a man who stood at the head of his profession.

"Yes,