It was a disagreeable thought, and, in the hope of banishing it, he refilled his glass; but his mood had begun to change.  It seemed to him that Helene was watching Cooley a great deal too devotedly.  Why had she consented to sit by Cooley, when she had promised to watch Robert Russ Mellin?  He observed the pair stealthily.

Cooley consulted her in laughing whispers upon every discard, upon every bet.  Now and then, in their whisperings, Cooley’s hair touched hers; sometimes she laid her hand on his the more conveniently to look at his cards.  Mellin began to be enraged.  Did she think that puling milksop had as much as a shadow of the daring, the devilry, the carelessness of consequences which lay within Robert Russ Mellin?  “Consequences?” What were they?  There were no such things!  She would not look at him—­well, he would make her!  Thenceforward he raised every bet by another to the extent of the limit agreed upon.

Mr. Cooley was thoroughly happy.  He did not resemble Ulysses; he would never have had himself bound to the mast; and there were already sounds of unearthly sweetness in his ears.  His conferences with his lovely hostess easily consoled him for his losses.  In addition, he was triumphing over the boaster, for Mr. Pedlow, with a very ill grace and swearing (not under his breath), was losing too.  The Countess, reiterating for the hundredth time that Cooley was a “wicked one,” sweetly constituted herself his cup-bearer; kept his glass full and brought him fresh cigars.

Mellin dealt her furious glances, and filled his own glass, for Lady Mount-Rhyswicke plainly had no conception of herself in the role of a Hebe.  The hospitable Pedlow, observing this neglect, was moved to chide her.

“Look at them two cooing doves over there,” he said reproachfully, a jerk of his bulbous thumb indicating Madame de Vaurigard and her young protege.  “Madge, can’t you do nothin’ fer our friend the Indian?  Can’t you even help him to sody?”

“Oh, perhaps,” she answered with the slightest flash from her tired eyes.  Then she nonchalantly lifted Mellin’s replenished glass from the table and drained it.  This amused Cooley.

“I like that!” he chuckled.  “That’s one way of helpin’ a feller!  Helene, can you do any better than that?”

“Ah, this dear, droll Cooley!”

The tantalizing witch lifted the youth’s glass to his lips and let him drink, as a mother helps a thirsty child. “Bebe!” she laughed endearingly.

As the lovely Helene pronounced that word, Lady Mount-Rhyswicke was leaning forward to replace Mellin’s empty glass upon the table.

“I don’t care whether you’re a widow or not!” he shouted furiously.  And he resoundingly kissed her massive shoulder.

There was a wild shout of laughter; even the imperturbable Sneyd (who had continued to win steadily) wiped tears from his eyes, and Madame de Vaurigard gave way to intermittent hysteria throughout the ensuing half-hour.