The increasing frequency of these appeals for justice and for intervention fore-shadowed the desirability of a conference.

Besides, there was a graver matter to consider, which implicated Scott.
When Kathleen wrote, suggesting a down-town conference to decide delicate questions concerning Geraldine's undergarments and Scott's new gun, Colonel Mallett found it more convenient to appoint the Seagrave house as rendezvous.
And so it came to pass one pleasant Saturday afternoon in late October that, in twos and threes, a number of solemn old gentlemen, faultlessly attired, entered the red drawing-room of the Seagrave house and seated themselves in an impressive semicircle upon the damask chairs.
They were Colonel Stuart Mallett, president of the institution, just returned from Paris with his entire family; Calvin McDermott, Joshua Hogg, Carl Gumble, Friedrich Gumble; the two vice-presidents, James Cray and Daniel Montross; Myndert Beekman, treasurer; Augustus Varick, secretary; the Hon.

John D.Ellis; Magnelius Grandcourt 2d, and Remsen Tappan, Trust Officer.
If the pillars of the house of Seagrave had been founded upon millions, the damask and rosewood chairs in the red drawing-room now groaned under the weight of millions.

Power, authority, respectability, and legitimate affluence sat there majestically enthroned in the mansion of the late Anthony Seagrave, awaiting in serious tribunal the appearance of the last of that old New York family.
Mrs.Severn came in first; the directors rose as one man, urbane, sprightly, and gallant.

She was exceedingly pretty; they recognised it.
They could afford to.
Compositely they were a smooth, soft-stepping, soft-voiced, company.