“Now look here, Lola, I’m just a bit tired of your chaff--this joke is about played out. Miss Glyn,” and he glared round the circle, “is the prettiest girl I have ever seen--bar none--and I am going to marry her! Here,” he added, “fill your glasses--I call upon you to drink the health of the future Mrs. Blagdon!” Sensation. To borrow an expression from legal cases of a dramatic character. Mrs. Corbett was speechless; leaving her champagne untasted she exclaimed: “But, Hugo, of course you are joking--why she is only a child of seventeen--twenty years younger than yourself! You must be out of your senses. You,” and there was a challenge in her eye, “never _could_ be such a fool!” “Wait till you see,” he growled. “Perhaps the lady won’t have you?” suggested one of his fair friends with a malicious laugh. “I don’t think there’s much doubt about _that_,” declared the Baron, who was, however, consumed with alarm by this sudden announcement; a bachelor Blagdon was one thing, a married man with a very pretty, and no doubt influential wife, was another--his day was done! No more hundred-pound cheques for him--no more big dressmaker’s bills for Mrs. Corbett, no more long-tailed hunters for Lord Robbie; all the same, there was no harm in hedging a bit. The day after the supper party Blagdon abruptly announced that he was going home. He had taken a final turn along the terrace alone under the stars, and assured himself, that these harpies were getting a bit too much for him. They looked upon him as their paymaster, and Lola was beyond all bounds--her bills were really outrageous; she was too fond of cigarettes and champagne; he had about enough of Monte Carlo, and decided to cut the whole blooming show. Before leaving for England he went over to Cannes in order to interview his mother, and inform her that he was about to get married. “Married!” she exclaimed; “and to whom?” She stiffened all over as she added, “I trust she is a reputable person?” “_Rather._” “Is it one of Lady Barron’s nieces?” “No, no,” with a gesture of indignant scorn; “someone much younger and prettier. You know Mrs. Fenchurch?” “Very slightly,” she answered loftily. “Well, it’s her niece.” “What--that little Miss Glyn?” “Ye-es; but she’s not so little, a good five foot seven.” “But, my dear Hugo, I understand she’s only a schoolgirl.” “She’s past seventeen--everyone doesn’t marry when they are middle-aged” (an unfilial rap at his mother). “She is awfully pretty; extraordinarily good-looking, I may say, and accomplished. I heard her playing and singing at the Bonhams’, and I tell you she astonished them.” “And you astonish me! She is far too young. What you want, Hugo, is a handsome, clever, well-bred girl, who has been about the world a bit, who will be able to manage a big establishment, and take her proper place in the County.”