As Marten had foretold, the wine flowed in torrents. There was a bewildering display of cool dishes, too, prepared under the personal supervision of the chef--that celebrated artist whom Keith had inveigled out of the service of a life-loving old Ambassador by the threat of disclosing to the police some hideously disreputable action in the man's past life which His Excellently had artlessly confided to him, under the seal of secrecy. Mr. Samuel, a commercial gentleman who had got stuck somehow or other at the Alpha and Omega Club, cast a practised eye over the wines, chaud-froids, fruits, salads, ices, the lanterns and other joys of the evening and announced, after a rough computation, that Keith's outlay for that little show must have run well into three figures. Mr. White agreed, adding that it did one good to get a mouthful of drinkable fizz after Parker's poison. "Ah, but you ought to try the punch." "Come on then," said White. They moved away and soon stumbled upon a cluster of bibulous mortals in their element. Miss Wilberforce was there. She liked to linger near the fountain-head; the fountain-head, on this occasion, being a cyclopean bowl of iced punch. The lady was in grand condition; festive, playful, positively flirtatious. She nibbled, between her libations, at a savoury biscuit (she hated solid food, as a rule) in order, she said, to staunch her thirst; she told everybody that it was her birthday. Yes, her birthday! In fact, she was quite a different creature from the bashful visitor at the Duchess's entertainment; she was hardly shy at all. "Punch and moonlight!" she was saying. "It's all as right as rain--birthday or no birthday." Miss Wilberforce had about forty birthdays in the year, each of them due to be worthily celebrated like this one.