“No, with us.”
Sir Roger looked her mercilessly full in the face, regardless of her blushes.
“That,” he observed with emphasis, “is exactly what you wanted, Miss Bellairs.”
Then he turned to the company, holding a full glass in his hand. “Ladies and gentlemen,” said he, “some of us have had a narrow escape. Whether we shall be glad of it or sorry hereafter, I don’t know—do you, Charlie? But hero’s a health to——”
But Dora, glancing apprehensively at the General, whispered, “Not yet!”
“To Dynamite!” said Sir Roger Deane.
POSTSCRIPT
It should be added that a fuller, more graphic, and more sensational account of the outrage in the Palais-Royal than this pen has been capable of inscribing will appear, together with much other curious and enlightening matter, in Lady Deane’s next work. The author also takes occasion in that work—and there is little doubt that the subject was suggested by the experiences of some of her friends—to discuss the nature, quality, and duration of the Passion of Love. She concludes—if it be permissible thus far to anticipate the publication of her book—that all True Love is absolutely permanent and indestructible, untried by circumstance and untouched by time; and this opinion is, she says, indorsed by every woman who has ever been in love. Thus fortified, the conclusion seems beyond cavil. If, therefore, any incidents here recorded appear to conflict with it, we must imitate the discretion of Plato and say, either these persons were not Sons of the Gods—that is. True Lovers—or they did not do such things. Unfortunately, however, Lady Deane’s proof-sheets were accessible too late to allow of the title of this story being changed. So it must stand—“The Wheel of Love;” but if any lady (men are worse than useless) will save the author’s credit by proving that wheels do not go round, he will be very much obliged—and will offer her every facility.