CHAPTER 39

I believe that on my first visit to Alex Sterling's home, I was one of the few guests who

had actually received an invitation. People weren't invited—they simply went there. They got into cars that transported them to Long Island and somehow ended up at Alex's

doorstep. Once there, they were introduced by someone who knew Alex, and after that, they behaved according to the rules of amusement parks. Sometimes they came and

went without ever meeting Alex, attending the party with an innocent heart that served as their ticket of admission.

I had been genuinely invited. A chauffeur in a robin's egg blue uniform crossed my lawn early that Saturday morning with a surprisingly formal note from his employer—the

honor would be entirely Alex's, it said, if I would attend his 'little party' that night. He had seen me several times and had intended to visit me long before, but a peculiar

combination of circumstances had prevented it—signed Alex Sterling in an elaborate hand.

Dressed in white flannels, I went over to his lawn a little after seven and wandered about somewhat awkwardly among the swirls and eddies of people I didn't know—

though I did recognize a few faces from the commuting train. I was immediately struck by the number of young Englishmen scattered about; all well-dressed, all looking a bit

hungry, and all conversing in low, earnest tones with solid, prosperous Americans. I was sure they were selling something—bonds, insurance, or automobiles. They were, at

least, painfully aware of the easy money in the vicinity and believed it was theirs for a few words in the right tone.