her, next to Lady Mount-Rhyswicke. Mellin was pleased, because he
thought he would have the Countess's face toward him. Anything would
have pleased him just then.

"This is the kind of table _everybody_ ought to have," he observed to
the party in general, as he finished his first glass of champagne. "I'm
going to have it like this at my place in the States--if I ever decide
to go back. I'll have six separate candlesticks like this, not a
candelabrum, and that will be the only light in the room. And I'll never
have anything but orchids on my table--"

"For my part," Lady Mount-Rhyswicke interrupted in the loud, tired
monotone which seemed to be her only manner of speaking, "I like more
light. I like all the light that's goin'."

"If Lady Mount-Rhyswicke sat at _my_ table," returned Mellin dashingly,
"I should wish all the light in the world to shine upon so happy an
event."

"Hear the man!" she drawled. "He's proposing to me. Thinks I'm a widow."

There was a chorus of laughter, over which rose the bellow of Mr.
Pedlow.

"'He's game!' she says--and _ain't_ he?"

Across the table Madame de Vaurigard's eyes met Mellin's with a mocking
intelligence so complete that he caught her message without need of the
words she noiselessly formed with her lips: "I tol' you you would be
making love to her!"