“Not this week, old friend. I have social engagements to fill!” Gordon tossed him the note he held. “See! Lady Jersey, the loveliest tyrant that shakes the cap and bells of fashion’s fools!—the despot of Almack’s—the patroness-in-chief of the Dandy Ball, invites the reprobate, the scapegrace, to that sumptuous conclave! She dares the frown and risks pollution! Would you have me disappoint my only woman apologist in London? Shall I not reward such unparagoned courage with the presence of its parlor lion, its ball-room bard, its hot-pressed darling?”
He laughed wildly, sardonically, and jerked the bell.
“Fletcher, a bottle of brandy,” he commanded, “and I shall not want you again to-night.”
The valet set the bottle down with an anxious look at his master—a half-appealing one toward Dallas.
As the door closed, Gordon, sitting on the table-edge, began to sing with perfect coolness, without a quaver in the metallic voice:
“The Devil returned to hell by two,
And he stayed at home till five;
He dined on a dowager done ragout
And a peer boiled down in an Irish stew
And, quoth he, ‘I’ll take a drive!