It was outrageously late, nearly four, when the revelers took leave of their hostess. Merrihew was happy with that evanescent happiness which goes hand in glove with late suppers and magnums. In the morning he would have a headache.
"Isn't she a little wonder, Jack? Do you blame me?"
"Not at all, Dan. It might be a good thing for you to marry a sensible little woman like that. But she won't have you."
"No, she won't." Merrihew reached for his watch. "Four A.M. Wonder if we can't find another bottle somewhere."
"You are going home, my boy."
"All right, if you say so,"—good-humoredly. "Say, what do you think of that man Worth?"
"Very good voice; but he's too handsome. Being a plain duffer myself, I don't take kindly to handsome men."
"Oh, go on! You're as fine a looking chap as there's in New York. But this man Worth has the looks of a lady-killer. He's been eying Kitty, but it doesn't go. Hang it, I can't see why she won't marry me now. She's got to, some time or other."
"You must have patience."
"Or more money. Can't O'Mally tell a good story, though?"