The return speech had the merit of brevity―perhaps in excess; but as the Count placed his hand on his heart and bowed low thrice, throwing all the expression (and that was a considerable allowance) that he could manage into his eyes, so directed that not only Miss Folleton, but at least six other young ladies, imagined that she alone was the object of those tender and pleading glances, it suddenly struck the assembled crowd that it was an intentional and masterly stroke of mingled humour and consideration. As the band, by preconcerted signal, struck up the glorious and entrancing galop which had been kept in reserve for the after-supper dance, the ladies and the younger men saw another instance of the Count’s marvellous foresight―for them in particular―and once more they joined in general and unmeasured applause. The Count, who had by this time secured the radiant Miss Folleton, bowed low and led the way to the freshly decorated ballroom, all the approaches to which were filled with the choicest exotics. Was not it an utterly perfect galop, such as that entrancing after-supper dream-dance with the ‘dear new angel,’ or our favourite friend that used to be, ‘Consule Planco’? Oh, the dances of our lost youth, realising in every gliding sweep and trancing whirl the most exalted conceptions of music, poetry, choregraphic grace, and intoxicating proximity to female loveliness, when, if at any time possible, a fold or two of the jealous marble of reserve is thrown back. Within a fast fleeting hour from this dance of dances did Mr. Neuchamp put Miss Frankston into the carriage attended by her grateful parent, who was truly tired of his life under circumstances of festivity, and dying to get to bed. ‘Ha! Neuchamp,’ said Croker, as he returned to the disenchanted ballroom, ‘you look exhausted. Come and have a parting glass of the Count’s Roederer. I stick to that; we shall never see any more of it, I feel sure.’ ‘Why?’ demanded Ernest; ‘you’re rather hard upon our noble entertainer. You allow that his wine is very good.’ ‘Good wine costs no more than bad under certain circumstances,’ replied Croker sardonically. ‘What do you mean?’ asked Ernest. ‘Mean! Why, that Yorick and Co. will never see a farthing of their money. I really feel uneasy about our share in the swindle,’ continued Croker, filling a large glass with iced hock, then drinking it slowly and with great apparent relish. ‘Great heavens!’ ejaculated Ernest, ‘I can’t believe it. I won’t taste a drop. And what do you suppose will happen to Von Schätterheims?’ ‘The devil only knows, who will probably stick to him for a season staunchly enough. He will make a bolt, or a warrant of extradition, including an assassination and two stupendous jewel robberies, will fetch him.’ ‘You are strongly prejudiced,’ said Ernest, deeply shocked and ashamed of his own mild suspicions.