Bertie was fond of a dinner once and loved a ball, but it seems now as if "man delighted him not, nor woman either," at least not women.
He will always go to a ball or a dinner if he is sure that Lady Ethel Lackland will be present.
For the rest, he spends his life, writing hard, in those very set of chambers which his dear friend Leicester shared with him, and which his spirit still visits.
There is to be a crowd at Clare House to-night, and Bertie will see Ethel—perhaps speak to her.
As he leans against the Mildmay's carriage he tells Violet that he will be there, and he knows by the gentle smile with which she looks down at him that she knows why.
"I am so glad," she says. "Will you look out for me? Lady Boisdale will not be there till eleven."
There is indeed a crowd at Clare House. The huge staircases are one great crush, the saloons a scene of warfare.
To dance is almost impossible, save to those young and ardent votaries of Terpsichore who are willing to whirl in the mazy waltz reckless of their own dresses and other people's toes.
Still, however, there is breathing and moving room in some of the corridors, and thither many have taken refuge.
Violet dances, and she sings, and laughs sometimes, but not as she did of old.