“I’m afraid it can’t be patched up, either,” said Britt dolefully.  “She’s been insulted, you see—­”

“Insulted?  My eye!  I wouldn’t say anything to hurt her for the world.  I may have been agitated—­very likely I said a sharp word or two.  But as for insulting her—­never!  She’s told me herself a thousand times that she doesn’t mind the word ‘damn’ in the least.  That may have misled me—­”

“Saunders, we can’t have our only romance marred by a breach of promise suit,” said his lordship resolutely.  “There is simply got to be a wedding in the end or the whole world will hate us.  Every romance must have its young lovers, and even though it doesn’t run smooth, love will triumph.  So far you have been our prize young lover.  You are the undisputed hero.  Don’t spoil everything at the last moment, Saunders.  Patch it up, and let’s have a wedding in the last chapter.  You should not forget that it was you who advocated multi-marriage.  Try it once for yourself, and, if you like it, by Jove, we’ll all come to your succeeding marriages and bless you, no matter how many wives you take unto yourself.”

Saunders, very much impressed by these confidences, bowed himself out of the room, followed by Britt, of whom he implored help in the effort to bring about a reconciliation.  He was sorely distressed by Britt’s apparent reluctance to compromise the case without mature deliberation.

“You see, old chap,” mused Deppingham, after their departure, “matrimony is no trifling thing, after all.  No matter whether it contemplates a garden in Hammersmith or an island in the South Seas, it has its drawbacks.”

The charity ball began at ten o’clock, schedule time.  If all of those who participated were not in perfect sympathy with the spirit of the mad whim, they at least did not deport themselves after the fashion of wet blankets.  To be quite authentic, but two of the promoters were heartily involved in the travesty—­Lady Agnes, whose sprightliness was never dormant, and Bobby Browne, who shone in the glamour of his first encounter with the nobility.  Drusilla Browne, asserting herself as an American matron, insisted that the invitation list should include the lowly as well as the mighty.  She had her way, and as a result, the bank employes, the French maids, Antoine and the two corporals of Rapp-Thorberg’s Royal Guard appeared on the floor in the grand march directly behind Mr. Britt, Mr. Saunders, and Miss Pelham.

“One cannot discriminate at the charity ball,” Drusilla had stoutly maintained.  “The hoi polloi and the riff-raff always get in at home.  So, why not here?  If we’re going to have a charity ball, let’s give it the correct atmosphere.”

“I shall feel as if I were dancing with my green grocer,” lamented Lady Agnes.  Later on, when the dancing was at its height, she exclaimed with all the fervour of a charmed imagination:  “I feel as the Duchess de What’s-her-name must have felt, Bobby, when she danced all night at her own ball, and then dressed for the guillotine instead of going to bed.  We may all be shot in the morning.”