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the mansion he'd formerly owned on upper Fifth Avenue. His daughter was in a disreputable profession, and his younger brother had a reputation for outrageous behavior. In Europe, Matthew Kent's paintings were making him famous, but his escapades had long ago made him notorious in his native land. Added to this was Gideon's murky role in the 1877 shooting death of the Chicago railroad magnate Thomas Courtleigh. All in I all, the head of the Kent family had a reputation as a radical and a roughneck. Definitely not good social material. There was one other event which absolutely assured the Kents' ostracism. This was what Gideon privately referred to as the McAllister Incident. Two years earlier he'd had a sharp encounter with the man who served as Society's unofficial prime minister, responsible for drawing up the guest lists for the balls which the great ladies gave, and for planning the themes and costumes of the quadrilles performed at those balls. Mentally-and sometimes openly-Gideon called that gentleman the little toad. In Gideon's estimation, Mr. Samuel Ward McAllister was undistinguished in intellect as well as appearance. He a - was remarkable only in that he managed to prosper by * being no more than a parasite. It disgusted Gideon that a born Southerner would thus debase himself. Perhaps that was why, during a chance meeting at Gideon's club in New York, things had gone badly. After introductions, someone had happened to mention Gideon's war record. This brought a sniff from McAllister. "I'm from Savannah, as you may know. But at least I was never a traitor." He eyed Gideon's chin. "Your beard led me to briefly mistake you for a member of the Grand Army of the Republic." "I don't know what led me to briefly mistake you for a man, Mr. Make-A-Lister." Society's prime minister turned purple when Gideon applied the scornful name the newspapers had given him. But he had no time to utter a protest because Gideon immediately knocked him down with one punch.
    Gideon usually rose before sunup. His work day seldom ended until nine or ten at night. This evening was no exception. After a light supper, he retired to the library of the splendid three-story Federal brick house that he'd purchased when he and Julia returned to Boston in 1878. He had paid the exorbitant asking price solely because Philip and Amanda Kent had both owned the residence during their lifetimes. Gideon intended to see that the house never slipped out of the family again. On Beacon Street below the library window, gas lamps glimmered, as they did above Gideon's large desk. Immediately after moving in, he'd taken over the library and converted it to an office. Wires hung from several holes in the plaster. The house would presently be electrified with some of Mr. Edison's lamps. And Gideon planned to install a telephone as soon as long distance lines were available between Boston and New York. At present he could only phone long distance to Lowell. Who the hell wanted to call Lowell? Puffing on a cigar, he settled down to work just about the time Carter was leading the donkey into Eisler's stable. Gideon's own son was upstairs in his room, studying, Gideon presumed Will attended the excellent Boston Latin School; Carter's wayward behavior at the Adams Academy had put the name Kent in such disfavor, Will could not possibly have gone there. Gideon reminded himself to look in on his son later. Over the library mantel hung the sword and rifle Philip Kent had collected in the early years of the Revolution. The rifle was the kind commonly called a Kentucky; the sword, a French grenadier's briquet. On the mantel itself stood the original green glass bottle of tea Philip had brought home from Mr. Adams' tea party. All the other family mementoes were displayed in the library as well. A glass case contained the medallion struck by Gilbert Kent, Philip's second son, as well as the bracelet of tarred cordage from Old Ironsides, on which Philip's grandson Tared-Gideon's