of the rooms were named from the nations whose styles
of decoration and furnishing were imitated in them, but others had the
simple designation of the gold room, the silver room, the lapis-lazuli
room, and so on. It was not only the show-rooms, the halls, passages,
stairways, and galleries (both of pictures and of curios) that were thus
enriched, but the boudoirs, retiring-rooms, and more private apartments
as well. It was not simply a house of luxury, but of all the comfort
that modern invention can furnish. It was said that the money lavished
upon one or two of the noble apartments would have built a State-house
(though not at Albany), and that the fireplace in the great hall cost
as much as an imitation mediaeval church. These were the things talked
about, and yet the portions of this noble edifice, rich as they were,
habitually occupied by the family had another character--the attractions
and conveniences of what we call a home. Mrs. Mavick used to say that
in her apartments she found refuge in a sublimated domesticity. Mavick's
own quarters--not the study off the library where he received visitors
whom it was necessary to impress--had an executive appearance, and were,
in the necessary appliances, more like the interior bureau of a board
of trade. In fact, the witty brokers who were admitted to its mysteries
called it the bucket-shop.

Mr. Brad's article on "A Prisoned Millionaire" more than equaled
Philip's expectations. No such "story" had appeared in the city press
in a long time. It was what was called, in the language of the period, a
work of art--that is, a sensation, heightened by all the words of color
in the language, applied not only to material things, but to states and
qualities of mind, such as "purple emotions" and "scarlet intrepidity."
It was also exceedingly complimentary. Mavick himself was one of the
powers and pillars of American society, and the girl was an exquisite
exhibition of woodland bloom in the first flush of spring-time. As he
read it over, Philip thought what a fine advertisement it is to every
impecunious noble in Europe.

That morning, before going to his office, Philip strolled up Fifth
Avenue to look at that now doubly, famous mansion. Many others, it
appeared, were moved by the same curiosity. There was already a crowd
assembled. A couple of policemen, on special duty, patrolled the
sidewalk in front in order to keep a passage open, and perhaps to
prevent a too impudent inspect