There was no question of Richard's popularity.
"Clar to goodness, Marse George, you is a sight for sore eyes," cried Malachi, unhooking the clasp of the velvet collar and helping him off with his cloak.

"I ain't never seen ye looking spryer! Yes, sah, Marse Richard's inside and he'll be mighty glad ye come.

Yes--jedge--jes's soon as I--Dat's it, mistis--I'll take dat shawl--No, sah, Marse Richard ain't begun yit.

Dis way, ladies," and so it had gone on since the opening rat-a-tat-tat on the old brass knocker had announced the arrival of the first guest.
Nor was there any question that everybody who could by any possibility have availed themselves of Richard's invitation had put in an appearance.

Most of the men from the club known to these pages were present, together with their wives and children--those who were old enough to sit up late; and Nathan Gill, without his flute this time, but with ears wide open--he was beginning to get gray, was Nathan, although he wouldn't admit it; and Miss Virginia Clendenning in high waist and voluminous skirts, fluffy side curls, and a new gold chain for her eyeglasses--gold rims, too, of course--not to mention the Murdochs, Stirlings, Gatchells, Captain Warfield and his daughter, Bowdoin, and Purviance.