CHAPTER XXXVIII.
AFTER THE BALL.
Lake glided from the feast with a sense of a tremen-
dous liability upon him. There was no retreat. The
morning — yes, the morning—what then? Should he
live to see the evening? Sir Harry Bracton was the
crack shot of Swivel's gallery. There he was, talking to
old Lady Chelford. Very well; and there was that
fellow with the twisted moustache — plainly an officer and
a gentleman — twisting the end of one of them, and thinking
profoundly, evidently considering his coming diplomacy
with Lake's "friend." Aye, by the bye, and Lake's eye
wandered in bewilderment among village dons and elderly
country gentlemen, in search of that inestimable treasure.
"Monstrous hot, sir — hey? ha, ha, by Jove!" said
Major Jackson, who had just returned from the supper-
room, where he had heard several narratives of the oc-
currence. Don't think I was so hot since the ball at
Government House, by Jove, sir, in 1828 — awful sum-
mer that!"
The Major was jerking his handkerchief under his
florid nose and chin, by way of ventilation; and eyeing
the young man shrewdly the while, to read what he might
of the story in his face.
"Been in Calcutta, Captain Lake?"
"No; very hot, indeed. Could I say just a word with
you — this way a little. So glad I met you." And
they edged into a little nook of the lobby, where they