"Not a drop,--not a drop," says Mr. Potts, drawing the decanter toward him. "It don't agree with me. Oh, Stafford! you should have seen Miss Massereene in her Greek costume. I think she is the loveliest creature I ever saw. She _is_," goes on Mr. Potts, with unwise zeal, "by _far_ the loveliest, 'and the same I would rise to maintain.'" "I wouldn't, if I were you," says Philip, who is indignant. "There is no knowing what tricks your legs may play with you." "She was just like Venus, or--or some of those other goddesses," says Mr. Potts, vaguely. "I can well believe it," returns Stafford; "but don't let emotion master you. 'There's naught, no doubt, so much the spirit calms as rum and true religion.' Try a little of the former." "There's nothing in life I wouldn't do for that girl,--nothing, I declare to you, Stafford," goes on Potts, who is quite in tears by this time; "but she wouldn't look at me." Luttrell and Philip are enraged; Stafford and the others are in roars. "Wouldn't she, Potts?" says Stafford, with a fine show of sympathy. "Who knows? Cheer up, old boy, and remember women never know their own minds at first. She may yet become alive to your many perfections, and know her heart to be all yours. Think of that. And why should she not?" says Sir Penthony, with free encouragement. "Where could she get a better fellow? 'Faint heart,' you know, Potts. Take my advice and pluck up spirit, and go in for her boldly. Throw yourself at her feet." "I will," says Mr. Potts, ardently. "To-morrow," advises Sir Penthony, with growing excitement. "Now," declares Potts, with wild enthusiasm, making a rush for the door. "Not to-night; wait until to-morrow," Sir Penthony says, who has not anticipated so ready an acceptance of his advice, getting between him and the door. "In my opinion she has retired to her room by this; and it really would be rather sketchy, you know,--eh?" "What do you say, Luttrell?" asks Potts, uncertainly. "What would you advise?" "Bed," returns Luttrell, curtly, turning on his heel. And finally the gallant Potts is conveyed to his room, without being allowed to lay his hand and fortune at Miss Massereene's feet. * * * * * About four o'clock the next day,--being that of the ball,--Sir Penthony, strolling along the west corridor, comes to a standstill before Cecil's door, which happens to lie wide open. Cecil herself is inside, and is standing so as to be seen, clad in the memorable white dressing-gown of the evening before, making a careful choice between two bracelets she holds in her hands. "Is that the garment in which you so much distinguished yourself last night?" Sir Penthony cannot help asking; and, with a little start and blush, she raises her eyes. "Is it you?" she says, smiling. "Yes, this is the identical robe. Won't you come in, Sir Penthony? You are quite welcome. If you have nothing better to do you can stay with and talk to me for a little."