He laughed joyously in answer. Why shouldn't he flirt with Lady
Mount-Rhyswicke? He was thoroughly happy; his Helene, his _belle
Marquise_, sat across the table from him sending messages to him with
her eyes. He adored her, but he liked Lady Mount-Rhyswicke--he liked
everybody and everything in the world. He liked Pedlow particularly, and
it no longer troubled him that the fat man should be a friend of Madame
de Vaurigard. Pedlow was a "character" and a wit as well. Mellin laughed
heartily at everything the Honorable Chandler Pedlow said.

"This is life," remarked the young man to his fair neighbor.

"What is? Sittin' round a table, eatin' and drinkin'?"

"Ah, lovely skeptic!" She looked at him strangely, but he continued with
growing enthusiasm: "I mean to sit at such a table as this, with such
a chef, with such wines--to know one crowded hour like this is to live!
Not a thing is missing; all this swagger furniture, the rich atmosphere
of smartness about the whole place; best of all, the company. It's a
great thing to have the _real_ people around you, the right sort, you
know, socially; people you'd ask to your own table at home. There are
only seven, but every one _distingue_, every one--"

She leaned both elbows on the table with her hands palm to palm, and,
resting her cheek against the back of her left hand, looked at him
steadily.

"And you--are you distinguished, too?"

"Oh, I wouldn't be much known over _here_," he said modestly.