“Well,” returned Harrington in a sweet and cordial baritone voice, affably saluting the company, “I didn’t exactly step out from behind the air, though you all look as if you thought so. I came in just now prosaically at the door—not stealthily either, for John Todd, there, both heard and saw me. But you were all in such a tempest of merriment that no one but Johnny noticed me. Come—go on with the fun. Tell me what it’s all about, that I may laugh too.” “O, I just disarmed Monsoor—that’s all,” said Palmer. This quip, though slight, was sufficient to set the group off again in a confusion of jests and laughter, in the midst of which Harrington wandered over to the pistol bench, and began to chat with the young fellow while the bout between Monsieur Bagasse and his pupil went on. In a few minutes Monsieur Bagasse came over to the claret-can in that region, drank, and took the opportunity to shake hands with Harrington, and ask for his health. “O by the way, Mr. Bagasse,” said Harrington, after due replication to the old Frenchman’s polite inquiries, taking from his breast pocket as he spoke, a bunch of violets inclosed in a funnel of stiff white paper, “here’s a May gift for you. I thought of you and your Corporal Violet so instantly when I got this bouquet, that I resolved to present it to you. Hallo, though! you’ve got one already.” He had just caught sight of the nosegay in the old slate-colored jacket. Like his own, it was tied with a pink string. A comical look of surprise came with a slight flush to his frank, pale face, and his eye glanced quickly at the young artist who, he saw, was eagerly watching him from the other side of the room. At the same instant he saw Witherlee looking with opaque eyes over in his direction, very intent upon the iron vice on the bench near by, and with a face entirely discharged of expression. Harrington’s intelligence was almost clairvoyant, and he felt that Witherlee was watching him and not the vice—felt also that Wentworth’s gaze meant something connected with his present action. With the feeling, which was as instantaneous as his glance had been, he caught sight of the eye of the old Frenchman, roguishly twinkling at him. Harrington was puzzled. “Ah, ha, Missr Harrin’ton,” said Monsieur Bagasse in a bantering whisper, “zere are two ladee zat gif ze vilet, an’ two zhentilmen zat gif ze vilet too! Eh, now, zem zhentilmen sall not be so vair mush fond of zem ladee zat zey gif away zere littel bouquet! Ha?” “Two ladies!” exclaimed Harrington. “How do you know there are two? I didn’t say so.”