Blanche of Navarre’s grey eyes sadly follow his retreating figure, and with a decidedly sinking heart, and forlorn spirit, she sees him a few moments after, careering “_au grand galop_” with his arm round Miss Meredyth’s supple waist. Always that Miss Meredyth! She feels wickedly vindictive against this girl--almost ghoulish, as though she would willingly scrunch her up, bones and all--this dollish beauty who has lured away her lover. Zai grinds her to powder (mentally), under her high military heel, and turning to one of her adorers, asks for a pencil and deliberately writes down Lord Delaval’s name for the dance she has reserved for Carl. It is some time, however, before this tardy reparation becomes known. Lord Delaval feels that he has borne as much as aristocratic flesh and blood can stand from this girl, who seems so little aware of the magnificent distinction he has conferred upon her, and that it is full time to assert his dignity. He asserts it therefore in the ordinary fashion of men who are _épris_--by bestowing his attention upon other women, of whom there are a multitude willing--and Gabrielle in particular--to accept everything or anything he chooses to offer, this Prince of Beauty, with his blond hair and ultramarine eyes. Like so many poor boxes, they are ready to receive the smallest donation--a smile--a word--his arm for a promenade--or his hand for a dance. Yet even while apparently engrossed in wholesale flirtations with the fairest of the sex in the room, even while lavishing soft nothings, pressing fingers, he finds himself covertly looking again and again, and fervently admiring the slender figure in its old-fashioned quaint costume, the fair sweet face of the girl who he knows is over head and ears in love with “that actor fellow.” Despite himself and his anger he cannot help secretly owning that never did woman exist more fitted to wear the purple, and to don the Delaval coronet than this one, and he resolves to win her--somehow. Having “put down his foot” on this point, he feels that all flirtations with Carlton Conway, Rayne and all others must end, that he must clearly make it understood that such doings must stop. Flirt though he has been himself ever since he dropped round jackets and donned the _toga virilis_, and flirt though he probably intends to remain until the very end of the chapter, he has not the slightest idea of allowing his wife to indulge in the same amusement. No! no! no! a thousand times no! The woman of his choice must be an exceptional being, and a very different stamp of woman to the puppets of the Belgravian _salons_, with whom he has been in the habit of dallying and associating, and with whom he has passed so many hours of agreeable foolery. Cæsar himself may of course do what he likes, but we all know what is expected from Cæsar’s wife.