"Oh, chaff away," said Bertie Fairfax, good-temperedly. "But I'll take you seriously; I will come."
"Done," said Leicester, still chaffing as his light-hearted friend called it. "I'm going down next week. Come with me?"
"Thanks," said Bertie, "I'll think it over. I'll come and cut you out with the Mildmay heiress! Hah! hah!"
He laughed as Leicester turned to him with a look of mild surprise.
"You didn't know that I was posted up in that intelligence! I've a dozen little birds who bring me news night and morning, and I've heard——"
"Pshaw!" interrupted Leicester. "I've dined with mamma and papa at Mildmay Park, and that—that's positively all. My dear Bertie. I am not a marrying man; now you are, but, mark me, Lady Ethel Boisdale is not meant for you."
"Thank you," said Bertie, "I'm very much obliged, but who said that she was?"
And with a light laugh the subject was dropped.
That night when Lady Ethel Boisdale entered the magnificent saloons of Lady Darefield's mansion in Park Place she looked round the room with calm, yet expectant eyes, and dropped them very suddenly as they met the also searching and expectant gaze of Mr. Bertie Fairfax.
It is one thing to exchange glances and smiles with a belle in a ballroom, but quite another matter to get a dance with her.