“Dahlia, there—­I’m going to dine with you, my love.  I’ve rung the bell for more candles.  The room shivers.  That girl will see you, if you don’t take care.  Where is the key of the cupboard?  We must have some wine out.  The champagne, at all events, won’t be flat.”

He commenced humming the song of complacent resignation.  Dahlia was still inanimate, but as the door was about to open, she rose quickly and sat in a tremble on the sofa, concealing her face.

An order was given for additional candles, coals, and wood.  When the maid had disappeared Dahlia got on her feet, and steadied herself by the wall, tottering away to her chamber.

“Ah, poor thing!” ejaculated the young man, not without an idea that the demonstration was unnecessary.  For what is decidedly disagreeable is, in a young man’s calculation concerning women, not necessary at all,—­quite the reverse.  Are not women the flowers which decorate sublunary life?  It is really irritating to discover them to be pieces of machinery, that for want of proper oiling, creak, stick, threaten convulsions, and are tragic and stir us the wrong way.  However, champagne does them good:  an admirable wine—­a sure specific for the sex!

He searched around for the keys to get at a bottle and uncork it forthwith.  The keys were on the mantelpiece a bad comment on Dahlia’s housekeeping qualities; but in the hurry of action let it pass.  He welcomed the candles gladly, and soon had all the cupboards in the room royally open.

Bustle is instinctively adopted by the human race as the substitute of comfort.  He called for more lights, more plates, more knives and forks.  He sent for ice the maid observed that it was not to be had save at a distant street:  “Jump into a cab—­champagne’s nothing without ice, even in Winter,” he said, and rang for her as she was leaving the house, to name a famous fishmonger who was sure to supply the ice.

The establishment soon understood that Mr. Ayrton intended dining within those walls.  Fresh potatoes were put on to boil.  The landlady came up herself to arouse the fire.  The maid was for a quarter of an hour hovering between the order to get ice and the execution of immediate commands.  One was that she should take a glass of champagne to Mrs. Ayrton in her room.  He drank off one himself.  Mrs. Ayrton’s glass being brought back untouched, he drank that off likewise, and as he became more exhilarated, was more considerate for her, to such a degree, that when she appeared he seized her hands and only jestingly scolded her for her contempt of sound medicine, declaring, in spite of her protestations, that she was looking lovely, and so they sat down to their dinner, she with an anguished glance at the looking-glass as she sank in her chair.

“It’s not bad, after all,” said he, drenching his tasteless mouthful of half-cold meat with champagne.  “The truth is, that Clubs spoil us.  This is Spartan fare.  Come, drink with me, my dearest.  One sip.”