Not that the shabby surroundings ever made any
difference whether the guests were "carriage company" or not, to
quote good Mrs. McGuffey. Peter would not be Peter if he lived
anywhere else, and Miss Felicia wouldn't be half so quaint and
charming if she had received her guests behind a marble or
brownstone front with an awning stretched to the curbstone and a
red velvet carpet laid across the sidewalk, the whole patrolled by
a bluecoat and two hired men.
The little tailor had watched many such functions before. So had
the neighbors, who were craning their heads from the windows. They
all knew by the carriages when Miss Felicia came to town and when
she left, and by the same token for that matter. The only
difference between this reception and former receptions, or teas,
or whatever the great people upstairs called them, was in the ages
of the guests; not any gray whiskers and white heads under high
silk hats, this time; nor any demure or pompous, or gentle, or,
perhaps, faded old ladies puffing up Peter's stairs--and they did
puff before they reached his door, where they handed their wraps
to Mrs.
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