Mr. Lovely looked so fierce that Phyllida hurriedly promised two gavottes, and Charles who was something of a Gascon could not help congratulating himself on his speedy success. They walked back to the ballroom almost in silence, and above the chatter of folk in the lobby, heard the opening of a plaintive minuet. Lovely, when he had left his partner, walked over to his friends of the _Blue Boar_ and was greeted with a shower of sallies. "How now, Charles, have you been smuggling rare spirits in the cloister?" cried Blewforth. "Snuggling would be b-b-better!" stammered little Peter Wingfield. Charles glared at both the young gentlemen, who laughed very heartily indeed, and were not at all put about by his frowns. "Oddslife, Charles," said Mr. Chalkley, "where have been your eyes these past six weeks to have so lately discovered the fair Courteen?" "Charles looks at women through dice-boxes," said Blewforth. "And what's worse, sees double wherever he looks," added Mr. Chalkley. "Charles," added Mr. Antony Clare, "be wise. Some knave of Clubs will trump your Queen." "Mr. Clare," said Charles drawing himself up very straight and looking as grand as possible, "I'll trouble you to croak when I ask for your noise; as for you, gentlemen, you're too free with your words, be d--d to the lot of you." Thereupon Mr. Charles Lovely swung himself out of the room with such an air that the young gentlemen looked after him in some apprehension. "Egad!" commented Chalkley, "the man must be madly in love for he's lost his wit." "And his humour too," said Blewforth. "Don't rally him too hard, boys," said Tony. "We can't all turn parsons because Charles is bewitched by two blue eyes," grumbled Chalkley. This was the opinion of the company, and though in their hearts they excused Mr. Lovely, they were loud in their condemnation of his churlish behaviour. Clare, afraid he was gone to work off his injured feelings by reckless play, soon followed him out of the ballroom, but could not find him at the tables. Charles had, in fact, turned into the garden. Cupid had pierced him with a long sharp arrow, and he was not yet able to bear a rough hand on the wound. The night air came over him fresh and cool. In the darkness he was more than ever enthralled by the image and pale fancies of an ideal passion. Yet for all he was a poet, or perhaps just because he was a poet, his love was tinted with the hues of convention. She was like those Madonnas who appear to peasant children, Madonnas in crude croelean robes sown with tinsel stars. One feels that much of the apparition is due to preconceived opinion. So with Charles, his love made one of a list of women dating to the Queens of Babylon. There was too much bob-a-cherry about her and too much cream. She stood, too, on such a high pedestal that if she owned feet of cracked clay not a soul could have seen them.