At five o'clock in the afternoon some ten days after her returnto America, Mrs. Pett was at home to her friends in the house onRiverside Drive. The proceedings were on a scale that amounted toa reception, for they were not only a sort of officialnotification to New York that one of its most prominent hostesseswas once more in its midst, but were also designed to entertainand impress Mr. Hammond Chester, Ann's father, who had beenspending a couple of days in the metropolis preparatory todeparting for South America on one of his frequent trips. He wasvery fond of Ann in his curious, detached way, though he neverceased in his private heart to consider it injudicious of her notto have been born a boy, and he always took in New York for a dayor two on his way from one wild and lonely spot to another, if hecould manage it.

　　The large drawing-room overlooking the Hudson was filled almostto capacity with that strange mixture of humanity which Mrs. Pettchiefly affected. She prided herself on the Bohemian element inher parties, and had become during the past two years a humandrag-net, scooping Genius from its hiding-place and bringing itinto the open. At different spots in the room stood the sixresident geniuses to whose presence in the home Mr. Pett had suchstrong objections, and in addition to these she had collected somany more of a like breed from the environs of Washington Squarethat the air was clamorous with the hoarse cries of futuristpainters, esoteric Buddhists, _vers libre_ poets, interiordecorators, and stage reformers, sifted in among the moreconventional members of society who had come to listen to them.

　　Men with new religions drank tea with women with new hats.

　　Apostles of Free Love expounded their doctrines to persons whohad been practising them for years without realising it. All overthe room throats were being strained and minds broadened.

　　Mr. Chester, standing near the door with Ann, eyed the assemblagewith the genial contempt of a large dog for a voluble pack ofsmall ones. He was a massive, weather-beaten man, who looked verylike Ann in some ways and would have looked more like her but forthe misfortune of having had some of his face clawed away by anirritable jaguar with whom he had had a difference some yearsback in the jungles of Peru.

　　"Do you like this sort of thing?" he asked.

　　"I don't mind it," said Ann.

　　"Well, I shall be very sorry to leave you, Ann, but I'm glad I'mpulling out of here this evening. Who are all these people?"Ann surveyed the gathering.

　　"That's Ernest Wisden, the playwright, over there, talking toLora Delane Porter, the feminist writer. That's ClaraWhat's-her-name, the sculptor, with the bobbed hair. Next toher--"Mr. Chester cut short the catalogue with a stifled yawn.

　　"Where's old Pete? Doesn't he come to these jamborees?"Ann laughed.