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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.
The chairs were large and comfortable, covered with tapestry; the glass was old Venetian, and the servants, moving like useful ghosts in the shadow outside the circle of mellow light, were particularly efficient in the matter of keeping the wine-glasses full. Madame de Vaurigard had put Pedlow on her right, Cooley on her left, with Mellin directly opposite her, next to Lady Mount-Rhyswicke.
Whereupon the four seated themselves about a tabouret in the corner, and, a waiter immediately bringing them four fresh glasses from the bar, Mellin began to understand what Mr. Pedlow meant by "gittin' ready for dinner."
A small, keen-faced man, whose steady gray eyes were shielded by tortoise-rimmed spectacles, had come into the room and now stood quietly at the bar, sipping a glass of Vichy. He was sharply observant of the party as it broke up, Pedlow and Sneyd preceding the younger men to the corridor, and, as the latter turned to follow, the stranger stepped quickly forward, speaking Cooley's name.
"Now, then," demanded Cooley, "are the ladies goin' to play?" "Never!" cried Madame de Vaurigard. "All right," said the youth cheerfully; "you can look on. Come and sit by me for a mascot." "You'll need a mascot, my boy!" shouted Pedlow. "That's right, though; take her." He pushed a chair close to that in which Cooley had already seated himself, and Madame de Vaurigard dropped into it, laughing.
He favored himself with a hopeful vision of the apartment on fire, Robert Russ Mellin smiling negligently among the flames and Madame de Vaurigard kneeling before him in adoration. Immersed in delight, he puffed his cigar and let his eyes rest dreamily upon the face of Helene. He was quite undisturbed by an argument, more a commotion than a debate, between Mr. Pedlow and young Cooley.
"More than jus' bein' guilty of that fault, I am goin' to tell you of others. You are not the ole-time what is it you say? Ah, yes, the 'goody-goody. I have heard my great American frien', Honor-able Chanlair Pedlow, call it the Sonday-school. Is it not? Yes, you are not the Sonday-school yo'ng men, you an' your class!"
"Let's finish with our first toast again. Can't drink that too often." This proposition was received with warmest approval, and they drank standing. "Brightest and best!" shouted Mr. Pedlow. "Queen! What she is!" exclaimed Cooley. "Ma belle Marquise!" whispered Mellin tenderly, as the rim touched his lips.
A man-servant took their coats in Madame de Vaurigard's hall, where they could hear through the curtains the sound of one or two voices in cheerful conversation. Sneyd held up his hand. "Listen," he said. "Shawly, that isn't Lady Mount-Rhyswicke's voice! She couldn't be in Reom always a Rhyswicke Caws'l for Decembah. By Jev, it is!" "Nothin' of the kind," said Pedlow.
He's game, she says 'he'll see you all under the table! That's what the smartest little woman in the world, the Countess de Vaurigard, says about you." This did not seem very closely to echo Madame de Vaurigard's habit of phrasing, but Mellin perceived that it might be only the fat man's way of putting things. "You ain't goin' back on her, are you?" continued Mr. Pedlow.
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