At last, at last, he sat beside the fairy-like creature, and filled his lungs with infinitesimal particles of violet scent.  More:  he was no sooner seated than the little blonde head bent close to his; the golden net brushed his cheek.  She whispered: 

“No’ty ickle boy Batster!  Lola’s last night, an’ ickle boy Batster fluttin’!  Flut all night wif dray bid dirl!”

William made no reply.

There are occasions, infrequent, of course, when even a bachelor is not flattered by being accused of flirting.  William’s feelings toward Miss Boke had by this time come to such a pass that he, regarded the charge of flirting with her as little less than an implication of grave mental deficiency.  And well he remembered how Miss Pratt, beholding his subjugated gymnastics in the dance, had grown pink with laughter!  But still the rose-leaf lips whispered: 

“Lola saw!  Lola saw bad boy Batster under dray bid tree fluttin’ wif dray bid dirl.  Fluttin’ all night wif dray bid ’normous dirl!”

Her cruelty was all unwitting; she intended to rally him sweetly.  But seventeen is deathly serious at such junctures, and William was in a sensitive condition.  He made no reply in words.  Instead, he drew himself up (from the waist, that is, because he was sitting) with a kind of proud dignity.  And that was all.

“Oo tross?” whispered Lola.

He spake not.

“’Twasn’t my fault about dancing,” she said.  “Bad boy!  What made you come so late?”

He maintained his silence and the accompanying icy dignity, whereupon she made a charming little pout.

“Oo be so tross,” she said, “Lola talk to nice Man uvver side of her!”

With that she turned her back upon him and prattled merrily to the gentleman of sixteen upon her right.

Still and cold sat William.  Let her talk to the Man at the other side of her as she would, and never so gaily, William knew that she was conscious every instant of the reproachful presence upon her left.  And somehow these moments of quiet and melancholy dignity became the most satisfactory he had known that evening.  For as he sat, so silent, so austere, and not yet eating, though a plate of chicken salad had been placed upon his lap, he began to feel that there was somewhere about him a mysterious superiority which set him apart from other people—­and above them.  This quality, indefinable and lofty, had carried him through troubles, that very night, which would have wrecked the lives of such simple fellows as Joe Bullitt and Johnnie Watson.  And although Miss Pratt continued to make merry with the Man upon her right, it seemed to William that this was but outward show.  He had a strange, subtle impression that the mysterious superiority which set him apart from others was becoming perceptible to her—­that she was feeling it, too.

Alas!  Such are the moments Fate seizes upon to play the clown!

Over the chatter and laughter of the guests rose a too familiar voice.  “Lemme he’p you to nice tongue samwich, lady.  No’m?  Nice green lettuce samwich, lady?”