Guy sat silently and pensively smoking his expensive cigars, planning and plotting all sorts of things to the accompaniment of bewitching strains of twittering waltz music and peals of merry laughter from within. He became distracted now and then in spite of himself, wandering away from his important mental problems to yield to the influence of association and remembrance which stole over him in a sad sort of pleasant way. Here was just the kind of evening he had _once_ enjoyed immensely, and might possibly enjoy again; there were all the same faces he had seen countless times upon countless occasions before laughing and chatting merrily. One or two couples out of the crowd who had been in the first grade of love-sickness when he last saw them, now seemed to belong more emphatically to one-another than before, and the sadder but wiser looking fellows who followed some of these developed ladies about gallantly, were loaded with satchels and shawls and other feminine tackle which strangely became them in Guy's eyes; they danced less, flirted less than they used in Guy's days, but then matrimony has its martyrs and its sacrifices, like every other institution, and the thorns and roses grow on the one branch. Some are unfortunate enough indeed in culling the matrimonial nosegay, for very soon the over-mature rose falls in withered beauty to the ground, leaf by leaf, and the disconsolate admirer stands open-mouthed and sorry, with a bare stalk of healthy thorns between his finger and thumb, but it is mostly his own doing, for even if his fair enchantress has spared him the disagreeable necessity of "popping the question," she had left him the power to decline.