“I—I don’t make an ass of myself but once a year, you know,” he said, with a deprecatory look at Elliott.
“Oh,” murmured the latter, doubtfully, “glad to hear it.”
Clifford gazed at him in meek reproof and then made a flank movement upon the champagne, but was again neatly foiled by Rowden.
Yvonne looked serious, but presently leaned over and filled one of the long-stemmed goblets.
“Only one, Mr Clifford; one for you to drink my health, but you must promise me truthfully not to take any more wine this evening!”
Clifford promised with great promptness, and taking the glass from her hand with a low bow, sprang recklessly upon the edge of the box and raised the goblet.
“A la plus belle demoiselle de Paris!” he cried, with all the strength of his lungs, and drained the goblet.
A shout from the crowd below answered his toast. A thousand faces were turned upward, and people leaned over their boxes, and looked at the party from all parts of the house.
Mademoiselle Nitouche turned to Monsieur de Sacrebleu.
“What audacity!” she murmured.