"You must have been in peril, indeed," remarked Mrs. Jerrold, bowing
distantly to Bero, and beckoning the coachman, as Mae sprang into the
carriage, to drive on. "I am sorry to put you on the box, Norman,"
Mrs. Jerrold added, as Mae took the seat, in silence, that Mr. Mann
had vacated for her, "and I hope Miss Mae is also." But Mae didn't hear
this. She was plucking up courage in her heart, and assuming a saucy
enough expression, that sat well on her bright face. Indeed, she was
a pretty picture, as she sat erect, with lips and nostrils a trifle
distended, and her head a little in the air. The Italian thought so,
as he walked away, smiling softly, clicking his spurs and stroking
his moustache; and Norman Mann thought so too, as he tapped his cane
restlessly on the dash-board and scowled at the left ear of the off
horse. The party preserved an amazed and stiff silence, as they drove
homeward.

"Eric," cried Norman, very late that same night. "Do be sober, I have
something to say to you about Miss Mae."

"Norman, old boy, how can a fellow of my make be sober when he has drunk
four glasses of wine, waltzed fifteen times, and torn six flounces from
a Paris dress? Why, man, I am delirious, I am. Tra, la, la, tra, la,
la. Oh, Norman, if you could have heard that waltz," and Eric seized his
companion in his big arms and started about the room in a mad dance. "You
are Miss Hopkins, Norman, you are. Here goes--" but Norman struck out
a bold stroke that nearly staggered Eric and broke loose. "For Heaven's
sake, Eric, stop this fooling; I want to speak to you earnestly."

"Evidently," replied Eric, with excited face, "forcibly also. Blows
belong after words, not before," and the big boy tramped indignantly off
to bed.