Not only was Peter's bedroom full of outer garments, and Miss Felicia's, too, for that matter--but the banisters looked like a clothes-shop undergoing a spring cleaning, so thickly were the coats slung over its hand rail.

So, too, were the hall, and the hall chairs, and the gas bracket, and even the hooks where Peter hung his clothes to be brushed in the morning--every conceivable place, in fact, wherever an outer wrap of any kind could be suspended, poked, or laid flat.

That Mrs.McGuffey was at her wits' end--only a short walk--was evident from the way she grabbed my hat and coat and disappeared through a door which led to her own apartments, returning a moment later out of breath and, I fancied, a little out of temper.
And that was nothing to the way in which the owners of all these several habiliments were wedged inside.

First came the dome of Peter's bald head surmounting his merry face, then the top of Miss Felicia's pompadour, with its tiny diamond spark bobbing about as she laughed and moved her head in saluting her guests and then mobs and mobs of young people packed tight, looking for all the world like a matinee crowd leaving a theatre (that is when you crane your neck to see over their heads), except that the guests were without their wraps and were talking sixteen to the dozen, and as merry as they could be.
"They are all here, Major," Peter cried, dragging me inside.

It was wonderful how young and happy he looked.