his hand tightly over hers for an
instant; a moment later, and it is she who--this time--finds herself
alone.

In the next room success is crowning their efforts. When Molly
re-enters, she finds the work almost completed. Just a finishing touch
here and there, and all is ended.

"I suppose I should consider myself in luck: I have still a little skin
left," says Sir Penthony, examining his hand with tender solicitude. "I
don't think I fancy decorating: I shan't take to the trade."

"You--should have put on gloves, you know, and that," says Grainger,
who is regarding his dainty fingers with undisguised sadness,--something
that is _almost_ an expression on his face.

"But isn't it awfully pretty?" says Lady Stafford, gazing round her
with an air of pride.

"Awfully nice," replies Molly.

"Quite too awfully awful," exclaims Mr. Potts, with exaggerated
enthusiasm, and is instantly suppressed.

"If you cannot exhibit greater decorum, Potts, we shall be obliged to
put your head in a bag," says Sir Penthony, severely. "I consider
'awfully' quite the correct word. What with the ivy and the gigantic
size of those paper roses, the room presents quite a startling
appearance."

"Well, I'm sure they are far prettier than Lady Harriet Nitemair's; and
she made such a fuss about hers last spring," says Cecil, rather
injured.

"Not to be named in the same day," declares Luttrell, who had not been
at Lady Harriet Nitemair's.

"Why, Tedcastle, you were not there; you were on your way home from
India at that time."

"Was I? By Jove! so I was. Never mind, I take your word for it, and
stick to my opinion," replies Luttrell, unabashed.

"I really think we ought to christen our work." Mr. Potts puts in
dreamily, being in a thirsty mood; and christened it is in champagne.

Potts himself, having drunk his own and every one else's health many
times, grows gradually gayer and gayer. To wind up this momentous
evening without making it remarkable in any way strikes him as being a
tame proceeding. "To do or die" suddenly occurs to him, and he
instantly acts upon it.

Seeing his two former allies standing rather apart from the others, he
makes for them and thus addresses them:

"Tell you what," he says, with much geniality, "it feels like
Christmas, and crackers, and small games, don't it? I feel up to
anything. And I have a capital idea in my head. Wouldn't it be rather a
joke to frighten the others?"

"It would," says Cecil, de