r!" she cried. "An' think of the emotion of
our good Cavaliere Corni, who have come an hour early jus' to make them
for us! I ask Monsieur Mellin if it is not good."

"And I'll leave it to Cooley," said Pedlow. "If he can drink all of his
I'll eat crow!"

Thus challenged, the two young men smilingly accepted glasses from the
waiter, and lifted them on high.

"Same toast," said Cooley. "Queen!"

_"A la belle Marquise!"_

Gallantly they drained the glasses at a gulp, and Madame de Vaurigard
clapped her hands.

"Bravo!" she cried. "You see? Corni and I, we win."

"Look at their faces!" said Mr. Pedlow, tactlessly drawing attention to
what was, for the moment, an undeniably painful sight. "Don't tell me an
Italian knows how to make a good Martini!"

Mellin profoundly agreed, but, as he joined the small procession to the
Countess' dinner-table, he was certain that an Italian at least knew how
to make a strong one.

The light in the dining-room was provided by six heavily-shaded candles
on the table; the latter decorated with delicate lines of orchids. 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. 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