The company stood up and drank the toast with enthusiasm.
Signor Marouski sang a sort of benediction in choice Italian, which was doubtless very fine, but nobody understood it.
This did not much matter, it was very effective, nevertheless.
Other speeches and toasts followed, and shortly after midnight the guests began to take their departure.
Lord Fitzbogleton was the last to leave. He still lingered by the side of Miss Lovejoyce.
“Your carriage is at the door, my lord,” observed the lady.
“I know it,” he answered petulantly. “I am perfectly well assured of that important fact. What does it matter? I am master of my own time—have no wife or babies waiting for my return. Hang it, don’t be in such a hurry to get rid of a fellow.”
“I am in no hurry, my lord.”
“I am glad to hear you say so, and now about the wing. I swear most positively I will not go till I’ve got your pwomise.”
“What promise?”