"With all my heart," said Saville at last. "Yet, no—we've been talking of death—such topics waken a man's conscience, Falconer, I never play for less than——"
"Ponies!—I know it!" cried Falconer, triumphantly.
"Ponies—less than chargers!"
"Chargers—what are chargers?"
"The whole receipts of an Irish peer, Lord Falconer; and I make it a point never to lose the first game."
"Such men are dangerous," said Mr. Windsor, with his eyes shut.
"O Night!" cried Godolphin, springing up theatrically, "thou wert made for song, and moonlight, and laughter—but woman's laughter. Fanny, a song—the pretty quaint song you sang me, years ago, in praise of a town love and an easy life."
Fanny, who had been in the pouts ever since Saville had blamed the champagne—for she was very anxious to be of bon ton in her own little way—now began to smile once more; and, as the moon played on her arch face, she seated herself at the piano, and, glancing at Godolphin, sang the following song:—
LOVE COURTS THE PLEASURES.
I.
Believe me, Love was never made
In deserts to abide;
Leave Age to take the sober shade,
And Youth the sunny side.
II.
Love dozes by the purling brook,
No friend to lonely places;
Or, if he toy with Strephon's crook,
His Chloes are the Graces.