“I never thought my little cousin was just a fool!” he cried. “La! to think of it—Oh, la!” His merriment was echoed round the table; relief and the sense of safety lent a greater zest to the enjoyment; above the babble rose the scream of a woman’s voice.
“A toast, gentlemen! A toast!”
The dark girl climbed onto the table with the aid of her companion and stood there among the glasses, her own in her hand.
“Here’s to the squeezing of the rotten Orange!” she cried, “and may we be all there to see it done.”
Vast applause greeted her from all save the lady and her companion, who withdrew still further into the background, and Jerome Caryl, who sat silent.
“Oh, dear, oh, la!” giggled Berwick. “Ain’t it amusing? Celia, my dear, give us another toast!”
Celia Hunt leaped lightly from the table.
“Your turn, your Highness,” she cried.
Berwick rose and made her a swaggering bow.
“May every Jack in gaol break free as cleverly as you did,” he said, then slipped back into his chair as the toast was drunk amid yells of merriment.