"Hello, Buzzy!" shouted three or four of the men. They had dined beautifully. For that matter, so had the ladies. They surrounded him and assaulted him verbally. You could have heard them laugh as far down as 35th Street, if you had been there. (Of course you were not, it being such a wretched night.) Bosworth grinned amiably under the volley of chaff they fired at him. He observed that Miss Downing effaced herself. She retired alone to the group of dummies. He was not long in wishing that he could be with her in that region of peace and rectitude. "Where's the groom?" he managed to ask, after ten or twelve voices had expended themselves in levity--not any of which appealed to his stricken bump of humor. "De Foe? He's changing," said one of the men. "They're leaving for Boston to-night." "Say, Buzzy, what do you think of the waxies?" cried another. "Have you seen 'em yet?" "Think I'm blind, Stockton? Good evening, Mrs. Runway. How do, Mrs. Clover." "I'm surprised you weren't asked, Buzzy," said Mrs. Runway, a blondish lady with black eyes and rather darkish skin. "You were such pals." "Where's your father, Buzzy?" shouted some one. "He was announced half an hour ago," said another. They all roared. Bosworth flushed painfully. There was a strange, new resentment in his heart. "He's changing," he announced coldly, and left them to wonder what he meant by the remark. Mr. Stockton volunteered: "Changing what? His spots or his mind?" But Bosworth had turned toward the young lady who had effaced herself. Somehow he rather rejoiced in the fact that she had forsaken this group for another and less objectionable one. Mrs. Runway intercepted him. "They do say, Buzzy, that you were in love with her," she said. "Are you dreadfully cut up about it?" He stared past her. "Not at all," he announced. "Far from it. Nothing would have afforded me greater pleasure than the privilege of giving the bride away." "Dear me," she said, as he smiled and walked on. Struck by a sudden impulse he turned to her. "Who is Miss Downing? Where have I seen her before?" "How should I know?" said Mrs. Runway, stiffly. "Oh," he said, turning again. A strange young man, very much the worse for champagne, had now approached the girl, his hands in his pockets, a vacuous smile on his flushed face. Bosworth changed his course and engaged young Mrs. Chanier in conversation, all the while keeping his eye on the girl down the room. "Terrible night, isn't it, Blanche?" he observed by way of reserving her attention, which seemed inclined to wander. "Ripping," she said. "Everything went off beautifully. Only one hitch, my dear. I say, who's the girl talking to Tommy Rexford?" She used her lorgnette. "I was just about to ask who the chap is talking to her. She's a Miss Downing." "Know her?" "Oh, yes," he prevaricated nobly, catching an ugly gleam in the young matron's eye. "She's a terribly nice girl." "I thought as much. Isn't she too nice?" "Who's this Rexford chap?"