Dinner was announced. The ladies proclaimed extravagant appetites. Brayder posted his three friends. Ripton found himself under the lee of a dame with a bosom. On the other side of him was the mignonne. Adrian was at the lower end of the table. Ladies were in profusion, and he had his share. Brayder drew Richard from seat to seat. A happy man had established himself next to Mrs. Mount. Him Brayder hailed to take the head of the table. The happy man objected, Brayder continued urgent, the lady tenderly insisted, the happy man grimaced, dropped into the post of honour, strove to look placable. Richard usurped his chair, and was not badly welcomed by his neighbour. Then the dinner commenced, and had all the attention of the company, till the flying of the first champagne-cork gave the signal, and a hum began to spread. Sparkling wine, that looseneth the tongue, and displayeth the verity, hath also the quality of colouring it. The ladies laughed high; Richard only thought them gay and natural. They flung back in their chairs and laughed to tears; Ripton thought only of the pleasure he had in their society. The champagne-corks continued a regular file-firing. “Where have you been lately? I haven’t seen you in the park,” said Mrs. Mount to Richard. “No,” he replied, “I’ve not been there.” The question seemed odd: she spoke so simply that it did not impress him. He emptied his glass, and had it filled again. The Hon. Peter did most of the open talking, which related to horses, yachting, opera, and sport generally: who was ruined; by what horse, or by what woman. He told one or two of Richard’s feats. Fair smiles rewarded the hero. “Do you bet?” said Mrs. Mount. “Only on myself,” returned Richard. “Bravo!” cried his Bellona, and her eye sent a lingering delirious sparkle across her brimming glass at him. “I’m sure you’re a safe one to back,” she added, and seemed to scan his points approvingly. Richard’s cheeks mounted bloom. “Don’t you adore champagne?” quoth the dame with a bosom to Ripton. “Oh, yes!” answered Ripton, with more candour than accuracy, “I always drink it.” “Do you indeed?” said the enraptured bosom, ogling him. “You would be a friend, now! I hope you don’t object to a lady joining you now and then. Champagne’s my folly.”