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.”

“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.

“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.

“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, as 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 you’ll find anybody at home.”

“I am bound elsewhere,” said Gilbert

“Where?” asked Randolph, curiously.

“To Mr. Vivian’s.”

“To call upon Laura?”

“My call will not be exclusively upon her,” said Gilbert.

“Take my advice and don’t go,” said Randolph actuated by jealousy.

“Why not?” Gilbert asked, quietly.

“They might look upon it as an intrusion.”

“I don’t think they will, as I was specially invited for this evening.”

“Out of politeness. Probably they have forgotten all about it.”

“It appears to me, Randolph, that you take a good deal of interest in this matter,” said Gilbert, amused.

“Oh, I care nothing about it; only as a friend I thought I would just mention that it might be thought rather presumptuous to take advantage of the accident that made you acquainted with Laura, to force yourself upon the family. If I were a poor boy like you, I would be careful to associate with my own class.”

Gilbert was provoked at Randolph’s insolence, as he rightly considered it, and answered coldly, “I will think of your advice, Mr. Briggs. I appreciate your motives in offering it.”

“What does he mean?” thought Randolph, following with his eyes his father’s ward. “I believe the fellow is angry with me. Poor and proud, I dare say. The Vivians will soon get tired of him.”

But though he tried to console himself with this reflection, it chafed Randolph not a little that Gilbert should be invited to a house which he could not hope to enter.

Gilbert kept on his way to Mr. Vivian’s house arriving about eight o’clock.

“Is Mr. Vivian at home?” he inquired of the servant who answered his summons.

“He went out for half an hour; will you come in and wait for him?”

“Is Miss Laura in?”

“I believe she is.”

“Then you may hand her my card, if you please.”

Gilbert was ushered into the parlor. He did not have to wait long. Laura entered and cordially offered her hand.

“I am very glad to see you, Gilbert—Mr. Greyson, I mean.”

“Never mind about Mr. Greyson,” said Gilbert, smiling. “Call me Gilbert, if you don’t mind.”

“Then I will,” said Laura, frankly. “Do you know, I already begin to look upon you as an old friend.”

“I am very glad of that, Miss Laura.”

“My father went out for half an hour, as the servant probably told you. He bade me keep you till his return.”

“Thank you; I shall be very glad to stay.”

“I met a friend of yours on Fifth Avenue yesterday, Gilbert.”

“Who was it?”

“Randolph Briggs.”

Gilbert smiled.

“I don’t know how far he is my friend,” he said; “though he told me this evening he was, and as a friend he ventured to give me some advice.”

“Indeed?” said Laura, looking the curiosity she felt.

“Would you like to hear what it was?”

“I certainly should, for it doesn’t strike me that Randolph Briggs is particularly qualified to give advice to anybody.”

“He advised me not to come here.”

“Not to come here! Why not?” exclaimed Laura, impetuously.

“He said I was only invited out of compliment, and that my visit would probably be considered an intrusion.”

“I wonder how he dared to say such things!” said Laura, indignantly. “What can he know of our feelings? Why, he isn’t on visiting terms here himself!”

“I suppose he meant it for my good,” said Gilbert.

“I am glad you didn’t take his advice, Gilbert.”

“I didn’t care to deprive myself of a pleasure. Besides, I thought I could soon judge for myself whether you looked upon me as an intruder.”

“What do you think about it?” asked Laura. “You have been here long enough to decide.”

“I think I will stay a little longer.”

Just then a boy of ten opened the door of the parlor.

“Laura,” he said, “mother wants you to bring Mr. Greyson into the library.”