On Fifth Avenue, Manhattan, horns honked, crowds jostled. Walled from the trespass of honkings, jostlings, in a very still room on that thoroughfare, a courtly company gathered last week. Financiers, famed beauties, serene old ladies. Day faded; lights pricked out along the Avenue. There was no stir, no chatter of departing guests in the still room—the gallery of M. Jacques Seligmann. Women of fashion, men of affairs, all strangely stayed when they should have gone home to dress for dinner. They did not go because they had lent their faces to the...
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