And then he looked around, and
recognising Mrs. Rodney, was immediately at her side. "I must have the
honour of taking you into dinner. I got your note, but only by this
morning's post."

The dinner was a banquet,--a choice bouquet before every guest, turtle
and venison and piles of whitebait, and pine-apples of prodigious size,
and bunches of grapes that had gained prizes. The champagne seemed to
flow in fountains, and was only interrupted that the guests might quaff
Burgundy or taste Tokay. But what was more delightful than all was the
enjoyment of all present, and especially of their host. That is a rare
sight. Banquets are not rare, nor choice guests, nor gracious hosts; but
when do we ever see a person enjoy anything? But these gay children of
art and whim, and successful labour and happy speculation, some of them
very rich and some of them without a sou, seemed only to think of the
festive hour and all its joys. Neither wealth nor poverty brought them
cares. Every face sparkled, every word seemed witty, and every sound
seemed sweet. A band played upon the lawn during the dinner, and were
succeeded, when the dessert commenced, by strange choruses from singers
of some foreign land, who for the first time aired their picturesque
costumes on the banks of the Thames.

When the ladies had withdrawn to the saloon, the first comic singer of
the age excelled himself; and when they rejoined their fair friends, the
primo-tenore and the prima-donna gave them a grand scene, succeeded by
the English performers in a favourite scene from a famous farce. Then
Mrs. Gamme had an opportunity of dealing with her diamond rings, and
the rest danced--a waltz of whirling grace, or merry cotillon of jocund
bouquets.

"Well, Clarence," said Waldershare to the young earl, as they stood for
a moment apart, "was I right?"

"By Jove! yes. It is the only life. You were quite right. We should
indeed be fools to sacrifice ourselves to the conventional."

The Rodney party returned home in the drag of the last speaker. They
were the last to retire, as Mr. Vigo wished for one cigar with his noble
friend. As he bade farewell, and cordially, to Endymion, he said, "Call
on me to-morrow morning in Burlington Street in your way to your office.
Do not mind the hour. I am an early bird."

CHAPTER XXIII

"It is no favour," said Mr. Vigo; "it is not even an act of
friendliness; it is a freak, and it is my freak; the favour, if there be
one, is co