"I say, Miss O’Brien, don’t you feel puffed up—reflected glory, you know, and all that? That young sister of yours says she knew he’d get the prize, because he’s Irish. I said, ’Och, begorra, why doesn’t his nose try to look at his brow then?’ and she boxed my ears! Did, really! I’ve fallen head over heels in love with her. But she says she’s going to marry an Irish breeder of horses. Hard on me, isn’t it?" His white teeth gleamed as he laughed out joyously. "I say, if I’d known we’d a second what’s-his-name amongst us, I’d never have fagged over books and notes till my hair went grey." She glanced at his crisp black locks. "What dye do you use?" "Oh, a family secret! Won’t you have some more coffee? Poor old Lancaster looks down, doesn’t he? Never nervous myself—" "If you’ll let me get a word in edgeways, I’d like to observe that that seat is taken." "How unkind you are to me! If you hadn’t tempered your words with a smile, I’d have gone out and hanged myself. All right, I may stay here till the owner turns up? Thanks. I won’t talk," sadly. She dimpled mischievously. Pause. Someone passing smiled and nodded to him. "I say, Miss O’Brien, see her? Think she’s pretty? Well, my mater beats her hollow! Wish she was here to-night. I’d like you to know her—oh!" He gave a roar of laughter. "I’m talking! Well, I don’t care!" "I like you to talk," said she, sweetly, but rather absently. She was looking across to where Ted Lancaster stood in conversation with some friends. She was wondering when he meant to come and claim his place. Presently he left the people he was talking to and strolled across to two boys. Nell’s head went up a little. "Owner of this place doesn’t seem to be coming," observed Pennington. "Lucky for me. I’m an awfully lucky chap. Oh, you’re not going?" "Denis is making faces at me. Everyone’s gone or going. And we have an aunt who objects to us keeping late hours." "Going, Nell?" Denis came up, laughing. "Look at the Atom shadowing poor old Yovil! He was just having a chat with that grey-haired cousin or something of his—awful nice old lady—and up came the Atom, ’You _mustn’t_ talk to her any more. Go at once and speak to the grumpy one in green!’ She was pretty autocratic, and he as meek as butter." "O’Brien," exclaimed their host as they reached his side, "I’ve been trying to get to you, but," with a whimsical glance down at Sheila Pat, "I’m under orders to-night. I’ve never been so polite before in all my life. Now shake hands! You’ll be heard of some day, O’Brien!" Denis flushed and laughed. "I’d like to tell you something—" "Eh?" The glasses flashed on him quickly. He drew him aside. "Well? Well?" Presently they heard him give a satisfied chuckle.