“I am perfectly certain,” drawled Purves—in the middle of a hush—to the widow, “that any more wine will have a most intoxicating affect on the party.” “Turn his glass down, Mrs. Armitage.” This from the Weasel. “We musn’t let the children get into bad habits.” Mrs. Armitage obeyed: and the two struggled amiably together, Pettigrew twinkling over the fray. “Peter,” lisped Alice, bubbling glass at red lips, “Douglas is so keen on you and your friend coming to _us_.” Our Mr. Jameson, whose head was very nearly as good as the Weasel’s own, drained his bumper before replying. “Oh, we’re coming,” he said. “Douglas will be pleased. Douglas dear,” she called across to her husband, “I’ve got you two new officers.” By now the whole table, not excepting Bromley, were in that pleasant state when the better-class Englishman becomes almost as talkative as the average foreigner. “Don’t talk shop in mess, me dear,” beamed Stark: and to Mallory, “How long did it take you to discipline your wife, sir?” Mallory, (“Sir” by right of age), looked across at his Hetty, said: “Hopeless task, Stark. Hopeless task.” By general request, the ladies did not rise with the port. They drank the King-Emperor’s health, proposed by Purves as the most junior officer present: a Merry Christmas (Colonel Mallory); and “_Gott strafe_ Germany,” (Major Lodden). The Weasel looked at his watch. “If you youngsters”—he winked at Mallory—“want to dance, it’s about time we went downstairs.” Alice rustled out with the ladies: her husband came over to Peter and Bromley; said: “Better come to my office, both of you, the day after tomorrow.” “I don’t know if I’ll be able to manage it, sir,” replied Bromley. “I may be on duty.” “Then get some one else to do your duty,” snapped the Weasel. It was the only sign he gave, during the whole evening, of an alcoholic consumption which would have put any ordinary man under the table. “Rummy devil,” confided Torrington to Peter and Bromley, as they strolled downstairs. “I was in his battery at Le Cateau. Brave! My hat—” this from a V.C.—“if his wife knew how he really got that D.S.O. she’d have a fit.” “Tell me,” said Peter. But Torrington, who won his own “gong” at the same time, grew suddenly shy; broke off the conversation. They descended to the cellar-like dancing-room, found it crowded. Rag-time thumped; lights blazed; couples slithered. Purves, too gentlemanly for words, was already partnering Mrs. Armitage: Pettigrew had taken the Colonel’s wife: Mrs. Mallory, despite her husband’s jocular entreaties, refused to dance: Major Lodden was grousing to Patricia. “How about another liqueur?” suggested Torrington. “I don’t think we’d better join the Gunners after all,” laughed Bromley to Peter: but he went to the bar with them just the same. There, they found the Weasel, drinking brandy-and-soda. “You youngsters had better not drink any more tonight,” he commanded. “Why aren’t you dancing?”