Mr. Cooley was thoroughly happy. He did not resemble Ulysses; he would
never have had himself bound to the mast; and there were already sounds
of unearthly sweetness in his ears. His conferences with his lovely
hostess easily consoled him for his losses. In addition, he was
triumphing over the boaster, for Mr. Pedlow, with a very ill grace
and swearing (not under his breath), was losing too. The Countess,
reiterating for the hundredth time that Cooley was a "wicked one,"
sweetly constituted herself his cup-bearer; kept his glass full and
brought him fresh cigars.

Mellin dealt her furious glances, and filled his own glass, for Lady
Mount-Rhyswicke plainly had no conception of herself in the role of a
Hebe. The hospitable Pedlow, observing this neglect, was moved to chide
her.

"Look at them two cooing doves over there," he said reproachfully, a
jerk of his bulbous thumb indicating Madame de Vaurigard and her young
protege. "Madge, can't you do nothin' fer our friend the Indian? Can't
you even help him to sody?"

"Oh, perhaps," she answered with the slightest flash from her tired
eyes. Then she nonchalantly lifted Mellin's replenished glass from the
table and drained it. This amused Cooley.

"I like that!" he chuckled. "That's one way of helpin' a feller! Helene,
can you do any better than that?"

"Ah, this dear, droll Cooley!"