Just so, my dear. Just so.
—“Merle! chèrie!”
Merle starts guiltily from her absorption; becomes aware of Monsieur le Vicomte d’Alençon, as the oldest present, making a few appropriate remarks in her honour. He tugs his white imperial; bows gracefully in the direction of the so charming granddaughter of their so delightful hostess—
And now they are all clinking and drinking to the good health and good fortune of Mademoiselle des Essarts!
“It’s Merle’s birthday,” said Peter, facing Stuart over their particular table at the Billet-doux.
“Then we’ll drink to Merle’s good health,” Stuart replied.
Glasses raised—eyes meeting steadily over the rims—meeting steadily—kindling to flame—
By the time the circular stems again touch the table-cloth, Merle is forgotten.
END OF PART I