Still, Townley did not dare to ask her at her house. You are at a woman’s mercy, there; she may ring the bell; she may even call her mother; you cannot choose your place, the stage-setting that most becomes you, arrange your lights, and select your own _dramatis personæ_. Charlie Townley was much like any other man, in the garish afternoon, and by the domestic fireside; in fact there was a certain quite intelligent look in Mamie’s pretty eyes at times which Townley found it hard to face. Yet he was perfectly certain that he had fascinated her. How did he know? Well, he had kissed her. Townley’s maxim was to kiss a woman first and win her afterwards; at the worst, you got but a rebuff for an audacity not in all eyes unadmirable; while, if you formally proposed, and were rejected, you had your value lowered in the eyes of all the world. He resolved that it must be on his own ground and very late at night, and in the midst of a very gay assemblage. He got up a country party of his own, matronized by Mrs. Malgam; and had meant to settle matters while exhibiting this other pretty woman submissive at his feet. But Mrs. Malgam also had another string to her bow; and the other string was Derwent, whom Townley had to ask: “a damned clumsy Englishman,” said he to her, “who has a cursed knack at getting in the wrong place at the wrong time.”--“In the right time, you mean,” laughed Mrs. Malgam; she knew Townley’s game well enough; but did not conceive it possible that he could mean to marry yet. And this belief was indeed so general that it came to Mamie’s ears; and she began to doubt it, too, and was for the doubt, ten times more infatuated with him than ever. So Townley made up his mind that his only perfectly certain chance was the Duval ball; and this did not come off for some weeks yet. For the whole Duval _gens_ was about to celebrate its reception among the immortals and Miss Pussie’s happy marriage, by giving a grand ball, the grandest ball that e’er was known, in our republican simplicity. Two thousand invitations had been sent out addressed to everyone who did not care to go, and to nobody who did. Two smaller packets of tickets had been sent, one to Boston and one to Philadelphia, addressed to Mrs. Weston and Mrs. Rittenhouse respectively, to be distributed by these ladies, where they would do the most good, as they knew best; and old Antoine Duval felt that he had safely bought his social distinction at last as he had bought his membership in clubs from obliged business friends and the legislation for his railroads from Congress and the Legislature of his native State.