This last toast the gentlemen felt it
necessary to honor by standing in their chairs.
[_Song: The Star-Spangled Banner--without words--by Mr. Cooley and
chorus._]
When the cigars were brought, the ladies graciously remained, adding
tiny spirals of smoke from their cigarettes to the layers of blue haze
which soon overhung the table. Through this haze, in the gentle light
(which seemed to grow softer and softer) Mellin saw the face of Helene
de Vaurigard, luminous as an angel's. She _was_ an angel--and the others
were gods. What could be more appropriate in Rome? Lady Mount-Rhyswicke
was Juno, but more beautiful. For himself, he felt like a god too,
Olympic in serenity.
He longed for mysterious dangers. How debonair he would stroll among
them! He wished to explore the unknown; felt the need of a splendid
adventure, and had a happy premonition that one was coming nearer and
nearer. 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.
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