"Confound it, that's mine!" said the aggrieved individual.

"I want it for a lady," urged Bertie.

"So do I," said Delamere.

"My dear fellow," said Bertie, chaffingly, nodding towards a gorgeous
American, "it is for Mrs. Commissioner Duloe. She must not be kept
waiting."

"I won't allow my lady to be second to any lady in the room," cried
Delamere who was elevated.

Bertie was in too great a hurry to chaff Delamere any longer, for,
perceiving that his relatives were safely at supper, he resolved to
make the most of the few minutes at his disposal, and, as he would
have expressed it, "lay it on thick."

Bluebell was leaning languidly back on the sofa, watching the forms
of the dancers, ever revolving past the open door to the strains of
a heart-broken valse. (_En passant_, why are the prettiest valses all
plaintive and despairing, quadrilles and lancers cheerful and jiggy,
and galops reckless, not to say tipsy?)

Bertie, with his spoils, was by her side, and, having restored her nerves
with champagne, proceeded to agitate them again with the warmest
protestations of affection. The child with the day's experience before
her, only half-believed him, but the spirit of coquetry woke up, and she
resolved to try and make him care for her as much as he pretended to do.