As the boarders rose from the dinner-table on Friday, Alphonso Jones addressed Gilbert.

“Let us take a walk,” he proposed.

“Thank you,” said Gilbert; “but I have an engagement.”

“I suppose there is a lady in the case,” said Alphonso, slyly.

“There is a young lady where I am going,” answered Gilbert.

“So I thought. I suppose you wouldn’t be willing to mention names?”

“Oh, yes. I am going to call on Mr. Vivian, in West Forty-eighth Street.”

“What! Mr. Vivian, the great merchant?” asked Jones, surprised.

“I believe he is an extensive importer.”

125“That’s the one I mean. How in the world did you get acquainted there?”

“I haven’t been long acquainted,” said our hero.

Alphonso Jones was a young man who, in England, would be called a tuft-hunter. He aspired to be on visiting terms in families of high social position; but thus far had not met with much success. This did not prevent him from boasting continually of intimacy in quarters where he was not even acquainted. He did not dream that his little imposture was easily seen through by most of those who knew him, but was complacent in the thought that he was classed with that aristocracy, which he admired from a distance.

“Don’t you know the Vivians, Mr. Jones?” asked Mr. Ingalls. “I thought you knew everybody that was worth knowing.”

“So I do,” said Alphonso, with an air of importance,—“that is, nearly everybody. I met the Vivians, I believe, at Saratoga, but did not have a chance to cultivate their acquaintance. Greyson, will you do me a favor?”

“What is it?” asked Gilbert.

126“Let me accompany you this evening to Mr. Vivian’s. You can introduce me as your friend, in case they do not remember our former meeting.”

“I should like to oblige you, Mr. Jones,” said Gilbert, “but my own acquaintance is too limited to allow me to take such a liberty.”

“Just as you say, of course,” said Alphonso, crestfallen. “I dare say I shall soon meet them at some fashionable party.”

“So it will really not make much difference,” suggested Ingalls.

“Oh, very little,” said Mr. Jones, nonchalantly. “I thought perhaps Mr. Greyson might like the company of one who was used to society. I think, on the whole, I will call on my friends, the Montmorencys, this evening.”

“Where do they live, Mr. Jones?” asked Mr. Ingalls.

“They occupy an elegant mansion on Fifth Avenue,” answered Alphonso, consequentially.

“Couldn’t you take me along with you?” asked Mr. Ingalls, demurely.

127“I fear not,” said Alphonso. “The fact is, Mr. Ingalls, the Montmorencys are very exclusive, and have expressly said to me more than once, ‘We are always glad to have you drop in, Mr. Jones, for we look upon you as one of ourselves; but bring no strangers. Our circle is already extensive, and we cannot add to it.’ Very sorry, of course.”

“So am I, Mr. Jones,” said Mr. Ingalls. “I should like to know a few high-toned people. How fortunate you are in knowing so many! What is the number of the Montmorencys’ house?”

“I always forget numbers,” said Alphonso, rather confused (for the whole story of the Montmorencys was a fiction), “but, of course, the house is familiar to me. It’s on Murray Hill.”

“That fellow is a humbug, Gilbert,” said Ingalls, as he and his room-mate entered their own apartment. “He pretends to have a great many fashionable friends; but it’s all a sham. Some day I’m going to teach him a lesson.”

“How?”

“Introduce a friend of mine, a good amateur actor, 128as a French count. Fancy his delight at making each an aristocratic acquaintance!”

“Let me know when the time comes,” said Gilbert, laughing.

“You shall assist me in it. I hope you will have a pleasant call this evening.”

“I have no doubt of it.”

Gilbert dressed himself carefully, and at half-past seven started on his visit. The evening was pleasant, and he decided to walk. Just opposite the Hoffman House he fell in with Randolph Briggs.

“Hallo, Gilbert,” called out Randolph, “where are you bound,—to our house? I don’t believe yo............