A little buzz of talk began at once; the spell was loosed. Under cover of this Castleton bent forward, irresistibly thirsting to confide in Jacynth. “I say, what a game! Would you think De Mürger is one of the greatest gamblers going, and a tremendous duelist?” “That boy! He looks as if dancing was his strong point.” “So it is. He is a favorite leader of cotillons--invented that figure for Lady Birmingham’s ball of shooting with Cupid’s bows and arrows--you know.” “No, I don’t. I am too old for much ball-going,” answered the barrister curtly. Meanwhile, though Fenella never once looked his way, she felt that her husband’s eyes were stabbing her with glances like daggers. It hurt; but she had the sweet revenge of knowing she was wounding his pride in return, though the false Circe by his side might try to pour in balm. So, looking a picture of girlish sweetness in her delicious white gown, so simple seemingly, so costly--a white bud of a little creature in contradistinction to the darker, maturer charms of her handsome rival, she listened with apparent eagerness to De Mürger. “Yes, I should regret not going to Vienna this summer, if I were not _here_. You do not know it. Ah, how I should like to show you our Prater. And the life, the gayety. How you would enjoy it!” “Do you know Vienna?” asked Mme. de Vigny of Onslow in clear tones, as if her neighbors were dummies. “It is--how do you say it in English?--_la ville la plus dévergondée_ in Europe.” At the inference that this abandoned capital will suit herself, in madame’s evident opinion, Fenella’s pale small cheeks take a sudden rosy tint, her tawny eyes gleam with quite a tigerish flash. She throws up her head, challenging Onslow mutely to dare countenance the insult. But Frank’s French is that of Eton, and he merely ejaculates an “Ah!” impassively. (“Quarrels are so upsetting to one’s digestion,” was Castleton’s thought. Yet not for anything would he have missed the human interest of the scene, which was “as good as a play.” Still the lull of talk was ominous, so he desperately addressed the only person from whom no explosion was to be feared.) “What is coming next, waiter?” “Suckie-pig, sir,” responded the gentle German. Ronny’s curly pate appearing on a level with the table-cloth, and nestling between his mother and Jacynth confidingly, was a welcome diversion. All eyes turned with relief on the rosy, roguish face, alone unconscious of hidden trouble among them. “It will soon be dessert-time; I may stay, mayn’t I, mummy?” coaxed the child confidently.