“It’s to be to-night,” she said.  “A fashionable charity ball—­everything except the newspaper accounts, don’t you know.  Committees and all that.  It’s short notice, of course, but life may be short.  We’ll have Arab acrobatics, Persian dances, a grand march, electric lights and absolutely no money to distribute.  That’s the way it usually is.  Now, Mr. Chase, don’t look so sour!  Be nice, please!” She put her hand on his arm and smiled up at him so brightly that he could not hold out against her.  She caught the touch of disapproval in Genevra’s glance, and a sharp, quick flash of rebellion came into her own eyes—­a stubborn line stopped for an instant at the corners of her mouth.

“What is a charity ball?” asked Genevra after a moment.

“A charity ball is a function where one set of women sit in the boxes and say nasty things about the women on the floor, and those on the floor say horrid things about the women in the boxes.  It’s great fun.”

“Charity is simply a hallucination, then?”

“Yes, but don’t mention it aloud.  Mr. Britt is trying with might and main to prove that Bobby and I have hallucinations without end.  If I happen to look depressed at breakfast time, he jots it down—­spells of depression and melancholia, do you see?  He’s a dreadful man.”

Saunders was approaching from the lower end of the balcony.  He appeared flustered.  His face was red and perspiring and his manner distrait.  Saunders, since his failure to establish the advantages of polygamy, had shrunk farther into the background than ever, quite unlike Britt, who had not lost confidence in the divorce laws.  The sandy-haired solicitor was now exhibiting symptoms of unusual discomfiture.

“Well, Saunders?” said Deppingham, as the lawyer stopped to clear his throat obsequiously.

“I have found sufficient food of all descriptions, sir, to last for a month, at least,” said Saunders, in a strained, unnatural voice.

“Good!  Has Miss Pelham jilted you, Saunders?” He put the question in a jocular way.  Its effect on Saunders was startling.  His face turned almost purple with confusion.

“No, sir, she has not, sir,” he stammered.

“Beg pardon, Saunders.  I didn’t mean to offend.  Where is she, pray, with the invoice?”

“I’m—­I’m sure I don’t know, sir,” responded Saunders, striving to regain his dignity.

“Have a cigarette, Deppy?” interposed Browne, seeing that something was amiss with Saunders.  In solemn order the silver box went the rounds.  Drusilla alone refused to take one.  Her husband looked surprised.

“Want one, Drusie?”

“No, thank you, Bobby,” she said succinctly.  “I’ve stopped.  I don’t think it’s womanly.”

Lady Deppingham’s hand was arrested with the match half way to her lips.  She looked hard at Drusilla for a moment and then touched the light serenely to her cigarette.

“Pooh!” was all that she said.  Genevra did not light hers at all.