There was no little surprise when he sent out invitations for a large dinner. His grandfather had been dead less than a month, and society was somewhat scandalized by the plain symptoms of disrespect he was showing. No one had expected him to observe a prolonged season of mourning, but that he should disregard the formalities completely was rather shocking. Some of the older people, who had not long to live and who had heirs-apparent, openly denounced his heartlessness. It was not very gratifying to think of what might be in store for them if all memories were as short as Brewster’s. Old Mrs. Ketchell changed her will, and two nephews were cut off entirely; a very modest and impecunious grandson of Joseph Garrity also was to sustain a severe change of fortune in the near future, if the cards spoke correctly. Judge Van Woort, who was not expected to live through the night, got better immediately after hearing someone in the sickroom whisper that Montgomery Brewster was to give a big dinner. Naturally, the heirs-to-be condemned young Brewster in no uncertain terms.
Nevertheless, the dinner to be given by the grandson of old Edwin Peter Brewster was the talk of the town, and not one of the sixty invited guests could have been persuaded to miss it. Reports as to its magnificence were abroad long before the night set for the dinner. One of them had it that it was to cost $3,000 a plate. From that figure the legendary price receded to a mark as low as $500. Montgomery would have been only too glad to pay $3,000 or more, but some mysterious force conveyed to his mind a perfect portrait of Swearengen Jones in the act of putting down a large black mark against him, and he forbore.
“I wish I knew whether I had to abide by the New York or the Montana standard of extravagance,” Brewster said to himself. “I wonder if he ever sees the New York papers.”
Late each night the last of the grand old Brewster family went to his bedroom where, after dismissing his man, he settled down at his desk, with a pencil and a pad of paper. Lighting the candles, which were more easily managed, he found, than lamps, and much more costly, he thoughtfully and religiously calculated the expenses for the day. “Nopper” Harrison and Elon Gardner had the receipts for all moneys spent, and Joe Bragdon was keeping an official report, but the “chief,” as they called him, could not go to sleep until he was satisfied in his own mind that he was keeping up the average. For the first two weeks it had been easy—in fact, he seemed to have quite a comfortable lead in the race. He had spent almost $100,000 in the fortnight, but he realized that the greater part of it had gone into the yearly and not the daily expense-account. He kept a “profit and loss” entry in his little private ledger, but it was not like any other account of the kind in the world. What the ordinary merchant would have charged to “loss” he jotted down on the “profit” side, and he was continually looking for opportunities to swell the total.
Rawles, who had been his grandfather’s butler since the day after he landed in New York, came over to the grandson’s establishment, greatly to the wrath and confusion of the latter’s Aunt Emmeline. The chef came from Paris and his name was Detuit. Ellis, the footman, also found a much better berth with Monty than he had had in the house on the avenue. Aunt Emmeline never forgave her nephew for these base and disturbing acts of treachery, as she called them.
One of Monty’s most extraordinary financial feats grew out of the purchase of a $14,000 automobile. He blandly admitted to “Nopper” Harrison and the two secretaries that he intended to use it to practice with only, and that as soon as he learned how to run an “auto” as it should be run he expected to buy a good, sensible, durable machine for $7,000.
His staff officers frequently put their heads together to devise ways and means of curbing Monty’s reckless extravagance. They were worried.
“He’s like a sailor in port,” protested Harrison. “Money is no object if he wants a thing, and—damn it—he seems to want everything he sees.”
“It won’t last long,” Gardner said, reassuringly. “Like his namesake, Monte Cristo, the world is his just now and he wants to enjoy it.”
“He wants to get rid of it, it seems to me.”
Whenever they reproached Brewster about the matter he disarmed them by saying, “Now that I’ve got money I mean to give my friends a good time. Just what you’d do if you were in my place. What’s money for, anyway?”
“But this $3,000-a-plate dinner—”
“I’m going to give a dozen of them, and even then I can’t pay my just debts. For years I’ve been entertained at people’s houses and have been taken cruising on their yachts. They have always been bully to me, and what have I ever done for them? Nothing. Now that I can afford it, I am going to return some of those favors and square myself. Doesn’t it sound reasonable?”
And so preparations for Monty’s dinner went on. In addition to what he called his “efficient corps of gentlemanly aids” he had secured the services of Mrs. Dan DeMille as “social mentor and utility chaperon.” Mrs. DeMille was known in the papers as the leader of the fast younger married set. She was one of the cleverest and best-looking young women in town, and her husband was of those who did not have to be “invited too.”
