“Well, I never!” she exclaimed. “It’s you, is it? How are you?” The group of aristocrats stared with the languid surprise which fashion permits. “How long have you been in London? Have you been inside? What did you think of me?” Then before Seth could reply she turned her flashing eyes on the group. “Well!” she said, defiantly, “what are you staring at? This is a friend of mine--a relation--my cousin Seth. He’s just up from the country. Aren’t you, Seth? Sorry I can’t join you at supper; he and I want a talk,” and she held out her arm for him to take. “Oh, nonsense!” said his lordship, with a disappointed drawl. “You can talk after supper as much as you like. Bring your cousin with you.” She laughed strangely. “So I will!” she said. “Come on, Seth. Let me introduce you: Lord Wardlaw, or the Baby; Sir Harry Roke, and so on and so on,” and she nodded to one and the other. “Now, then, where’s that brougham? My cousin’s going to ride with me and you, Baby; the rest of you can go as you like. Come on!” and, linking her arm in Seth’s, she led the way to the carriage. They drove to one of the restaurants, and ascended to a private room, in which a brilliantly lit supper-table was laid out. Bella-Bella flung her hat and plush jacket to a waiter, and sat herself at the head of the table, and motioned Seth to the seat beside her. She took no further notice of him--an example which the rest politely followed. The waiters brought an elaborate supper; champagne of the first brands flowed like water; and while the laughter and the chatter grew louder and louder, Seth worked his way through the long menu, and swallowed glass after glass of the costly wine with the keen enjoyment and the impassiveness of an Indian, a Turk, and a gypsy! As the meal proceeded, Bella-Bella’s spirits rose. Her clear, bell-like voice rang out above the rest, her laughter set the glasses tingling, and presently his lordship, encouraged by her good-humor, said: “What about a song, Bella?” “All right!” she exclaimed. “What will you have?” and, tossing down a glass of champagne, she sang, with a “go” and a spirit which would have won her as much applause at the Palace as her trapeze business, one of the popular songs of the day. Her audience clapped and knocked the table--very much, dear reader, for all their aristocratic refinement, as the audience at a “friendly lead” in one of the slums would have done; but Seth remained silent, his eyes fixed on the tablecloth. “My cousin don’t like that kind of thing,” she said, without glancing at him. “This is more in his style,” and in lower tones she sang a song in some gibberish which was unknown to all but Seth, whose eyes flashed though his face did not move a muscle. “What language is that, Bella?” asked Sir Harry, with a laugh, as the applause subsided. “Italian? Spanish? It sounded like the last, I fancy?” “Never you mind,” she retorted. “It’s a lingo my cousin understands, so he’s cleverer than you.”