Not that the shabby surroundings ever made any difference whether the guests were "carriage company" or not, to quote good Mrs.McGuffey.Peter would not be Peter if he lived anywhere else, and Miss Felicia wouldn't be half so quaint and charming if she had received her guests behind a marble or brownstone front with an awning stretched to the curbstone and a red velvet carpet laid across the sidewalk, the whole patrolled by a bluecoat and two hired men.
The little tailor had watched many such functions before.

So had the neighbors, who were craning their heads from the windows.

They all knew by the carriages when Miss Felicia came to town and when she left, and by the same token for that matter.

The only difference between this reception and former receptions, or teas, or whatever the great people upstairs called them, was in the ages of the guests; not any gray whiskers and white heads under high silk hats, this time; nor any demure or pompous, or gentle, or, perhaps, faded old ladies puffing up Peter's stairs--and they did puff before they reached his door, where they handed their wraps to Mrs.McGuffey in her brave white cap and braver white apron.

Only bright eyes and rosy faces today framed in tiny bon nets, and well-groomed young fellows in white scarfs and black coats.
But if anybody had thought of the shabby surroundings they forgot all about it when they mounted the third flight of stairs and looked in the door.