“I like that!” he chuckled. “That's one way of helpin' a feller! Helene, can you do any better than that?”
“Ah, this dear, droll Cooley!”
The tantalizing witch lifted the youth's glass to his lips and let him drink, as a mother helps a thirsty child. “Bebe!” she laughed endearingly.
As the lovely Helene pronounced that word, Lady Mount-Rhyswicke was leaning forward to replace Mellin's empty glass upon the table.
“I don't care whether you're a widow or not!” he shouted furiously. And he resoundingly kissed her massive shoulder.
There was a wild shout of laughter; even the imperturbable Sneyd (who had continued to win steadily) wiped tears from his eyes, and Madame de Vaurigard gave way to intermittent hysteria throughout the ensuing half-hour.
For a time Mellin sat grimly observing this inexplicable merriment with a cold smile.
“Laugh on!” he commanded with bitter satire, some ten minutes after play had been resumed—and was instantly obeyed.
Whereupon his mood underwent another change, and he became convinced that the world was a warm and kindly place, where it was good to live. He forgot that he was jealous of Cooley and angry with the Countess; he liked everybody again, especially Lady Mount-Rhyswicke. “Won't you sit farther forward?” he begged her earnestly; “so that I can see your beautiful golden hair?”
He heard but dimly the spasmodic uproar that followed. “Laugh on!” he repeated with a swoop of his arm. “I don't care! Don't you care either, Mrs. Mount-Rhyswicke. Please sit where I can see your beautiful golden hair. Don't be afraid I'll kiss you again. I wouldn't do it for the whole world. You're one of the noblest women I ever knew. I feel that's true. I don't know how I know it, but I know it. Let 'em laugh!”