They were again engaged in a polka. Ordinarily, Tom was very fond of a polka; but on this occasion he refused to join in the dance, but stood on one side and noticed the passionate glances bestowed by the Frenchman on the inconstant charmer. His breast swelled; but he was obliged to devour his rage.
When the polka ceased several couples proceeded to the supper-room for a glass of champagne and amongst them were Zephyrus and Clotilde. In a minute or two the others came back; but the Frenchman and the fair syren did not appear.
Maddened by jealousy, Tom went in search of them.
As he approached the supper-room, the door of which was partly open, he perceived at a glance that they were alone together, and that Zephyrus, who was seated beside her, was still pouring forth tender speeches in her ear; but they were too much engrossed by each other to notice him.
His first impulse was to rush in upon them; but hearing his own name pronounced, he stood still.
“I hope you don't care for that grand nigaud, Tom Tankard,” said Zephyrus. “Indeed, it is hardly possible you can—he is so frightfully ugly, besides being ridiculous and stupid. But I believe he flatters himself you are in love with him.”
“He certainly pays me a great deal of attention,” replied Clotilde; “but if he fancies I am in love with him, he is very much mistaken. In fact, to confess the truth, I am becoming rather tired of him.”
“That gives me hopes,” said Zephyrus. “I shall try and please you better.”
“You please me very much,” said Clotilde. “You dance charmingly—much better than Tom.”
“He cannot dance at all,” said Zephyrus, contemptuously. “But dancing is the least of my accomplishments. I am a skilful musician; I ride well, drive well, shoot well——”