She stared at him. "Oh, he's all right, Mr. Buzzy Van Pycke," she said, resenting his ignorance. "Tommy Rexford is one of the dearest boys in the world. He's from Pittsburg. I met him at Palm Beach last winter. He comes to New York pretty often. I say, Buzzy, are you listening?" "Sure," said Buzzy, whose attention had drifted to the girl in the white satin. Plainly, she was being annoyed by the attentions of the intoxicated Mr. Rexford. He appeared to be relating a story which shocked her. "He seems very keen about Miss Downing," he volunteered, a queer bitterness in his heart. Mrs. Chanier bridled. "What? Why, he's been drinking a little too much, that's all." Her tone was nasty. Bosworth was not slow to grasp the true state of affairs. "How's your husband?" he asked bluntly. She smiled serenely. "Oh, he's still got his locomotor ataxia, if that's what you mean." Miss Downing abruptly left Mr. Rexford, who, looking after her for a moment as if dazed, allowed himself a short laugh of derision. Young Mr. Van Pycke's foot itched with the desire to kick young Mr. Rexford. "I'm sure liquor doesn't affect me in that way," he muttered, overtaken by the sudden recollection that he had imbibed quite freely, and further distressed by the fear that it had not entirely worn off. To himself he was saying: "That fellow's a warning to me. If I thought I looked or acted as he does, I'd--well, anyhow, I don't drink to excess, so I can't make comparisons or resolutions. That girl doesn't belong with this crowd. She's too good for them." With this sage conclusion he promptly took it upon himself to put her into better company. He joined her as she was about to pass into the library. "What was that fellow saying to you?" he demanded, quite as if he had always possessed the right to interrogate. "Was it so plain as all that, Mr. Van Pycke?" she asked, distress in her eyes. "He's been drinking." "That's no excuse," said he with surpassing severity. "I say, you--you don't really belong in this crowd," he went on earnestly. "Not that there's anything bad--I mean, the set's a bit faster than you're accustomed to. I can see that. I'm not throwing stones, so don't look at me so scornfully. Believe me, it's not the rottenest set in town. It's only the gayest. How do you happen to be here? Are you related to Mrs. Scoville?" "Birds of a feather," she said, a gleam of anger in her unsmiling eyes. "You mean that to apply to yourself or to me?" he asked, with a wry smile. "Do you profess to be any better than the rest of them, Mr. Van Pycke? They call you 'Buzzy' and 'dear,' so they must be your intimates. Why do you set yourself above them?" "The Lord knows I don't, Miss Downing. But I _do_ set you above them. You'll have to admit there's something in that. I--" She smiled faintly. "Please don't look so dismal. I didn't mean to bite your head off."