At one the three Frenchmen whom he had met at Bignon's at breakfast in the morning were engaged with Forestfield at whist; at another _baccarat_ was being played, with some ladies, of the same pattern as those in the other room, looking on and occasionally betting, while now and then a Russian exclamation which escaped them betrayed the nationality of the gentlemen. There was a sideboard at one end of the room, on which were heaped various cold delicacies and tall bottles, while from time to time a couple of liveried servants walked round the tables, attending to the wants of the guests. The rubber at whist was just over, and Lord Forestfield, having won, was pocketing his gains in great good humour, and leaning back in his chair with a saucy laugh of triumph, when Madame de Nerval touched him on the shoulder. 'Hallo, Mélanie, what is it?' he said, looking up. 'I have just finished my rubber, and was going to look after you. I was thinking--' 'I have brought your friend Sir Nugent Uffington, milord,' said Mélanie, interrupting him. 'I have introduced myself, and explained to Sir Nugent how glad I am to see him.' 'Here you are then, my good fellow,' said Forestfield, jumping up; 'I didn't catch sight of you at first behind Mélanie's ample skirts. So you have made acquaintance with her already, have you? that's right. I hate most women--I have reason to; but she is an exception to her sex--true-hearted, staunch, and if she did not understand English so well, I would say devilish handsome!' 'There is no woman, I think, who would not understand a compliment, in whatever language it might be paid to her,' said Mélanie, 'and I don't pretend to be any stronger-minded than the rest. One could tell that your friend was an Englishman, milord,' continued Mélanie, with a touch of coquetry which Uffington had not hitherto remarked in her, and which he soon saw was assumed, 'for we have been full five minutes together, and he has not yet said one pretty thing to me.' 'Has he not?' said Lord Forestfield. 'Well, I can understand that. You said all your sweet things years ago, didn't you, Sir Nugent? and a pretty mess you got into by saying them, I have heard.' Uffington's face grew very dark; his nostrils dilated and his nether lip quivered; but he checked himself sufficiently to say, without any perceptible tremor in his voice, 'I grieve to hear so bad a character of myself from Madame de Nerval; and though I must own to having been silent about her charms, it was not owing to any want of appreciation of them. There is a proverb in our language, madame, in which it says that passions are like streams, "the shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb." I must ask you to think that that is my case, and also that, "Old as I am, for ladies' love unfit, The charms of beauty I remember yet."'