Every one knew him, everybody, that is, who prided himself upon being somebody, whether he was a great nobleman or a great artist.

His rooms, his suppers, his breakfasts were the usual rallying points of the whole world of fashion.
Eminent damsels, whose enthusiasm for art constrained them to come to closer quarters than usual with this or that famous artist; liberal-minded amazons, who extended their tender relations beyond the chains of Hymen; lively dames, who loved to see around them good-humoured, free-and-easy folks, instead of the usual dull and dignified drawing-room loungers; foreign millionaires, who desired to be regaled with an exhibition of beauty and enjoyment; _blase_ souls, who infected others with the contagion of their own disgust; crazy poets, who needed but a nod to immediately rise to their feet and declaim their own verses; two or three newspaper correspondents, who describe in their journals everything that they hear, see, eat, and drink at Mr.
Kecskerey's suppers, and many others of a like kidney, were the sort of guests who frequented these saloons of an evening, generally twice a week.
It must not be supposed for a moment, however, that there was ever the slightest breach of good manners at Mr.Kecskerey's social evenings.

Any one supposing the contrary would be making the greatest mistake in the world.

The most rigorous propriety was the order of the day, or rather of the evening.

First of all, the artists and _artistes_ recited, sang, and played the piano, and then those who chose might dance a few modest quadrilles and waltzes together.