They were all there; everybody, in fact, who could squeeze inside the drawing-room; while those who couldn't filled the hall and even the stairs--wherever Richard's voice could be heard.
St.George edged into the packed room, swept his glance over the throng, and made his way through the laughing groups, greeting every one right and left, old and young, as he moved--a kiss here on the upturned cheek of some pretty girl whom he had carried in his arms when a baby; a caressing pat of approbation on some young gallant's shoulder; a bend of the head in respectful homage to those he knew but slightly--the Baroness de Trobiand, Mrs.Cheston's friend, being one of them; a hearty hand held out to the men who had been away for the summer--interrupted now and then by some such sally from a young bride as--"Oh, you mean Uncle George! No--I'm not going to love you any more! You promised you would come to my party and you didn't, and my cotillon was all spoiled!" or a--"Why, Temple, you dear man!-I'm so glad to see you! Don't forget my dinner on Thursday.

The Secretary is coming and I want you to sit between him and Lord Atherton"-- a sort of triumphal procession, really--until he reached the end of the room and stood at Kate's side.
"Well, sweetheart!" he cried gayly, caressing her soft hand before his fingers closed over it.

Then his face hardened.

"Ah, Mr.Willits! So you, too, must come under the spell of Mr.Horn's voice," and without waiting for a reply continued as if nothing had interrupted the joy of his greeting.

"You should sit down somewhere, my dear Kate--get as near to Richard as you can, so you can watch his face--that's the best part of it.