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!"
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.
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