CHAPTER VII. MIRTH AND LAUGHTER.

Kitty's supper parties were always delightful, though slightly godless. The guests were usually men and women of the world, connected with art, literature, and the drama, so a general tone of brilliancy permeated the atmosphere. The hostess herself was an admirable conversationalist, and what with the wine, the laughter, and the influence of the midnight hour, the excitement seemed contagious. Every one was amusing, and witty stories, caustic remarks, and sarcastic epigrams followed one after the other in reckless profusion.

Very pretty the supper-table looked, though, it must be confessed, rather disorderly. It was not a very large table, but accommodated the present company admirably, and under the soft light of the tapers, with which the room was illuminated, the silver and glass sparked brilliantly. Half-filled glasses of champagne and burgundy, crumbs on the white table-cloth, and a general array of disorderly plates, showed that supper was over. The guests had pushed away their chairs, and were smoking and chatting, while a light breeze came in through the open French window, and somewhat cooled the temperature of the room. The smoky atmosphere, the flashing of the light on the bare shoulders of the women, gay feminine, laughter, and the general air of unconventionality, fascinated Keith as he sat beside his hostess, listening to the desultory conversation, and occasionally joining in. Slingsby was speaking about a new book which had come out, and this gave rise to a brilliant rattle of pungent wit.

"It's called 'Connie's Crime,' a mixture of blood and atheism."

"Yes, so they say; a hash-up of the Newgate Calendar and Queen Mab, with a dash of realism to render it attractive."

"Awfully bad for the public."

"Bah! they read worse in papers. The Penny Whistle was bewailing the prevalence of criminal literature, yet you can't take up a night's issue without finding a divorce case or a murder--the pot calling the kettle black with a vengeance."

"Don't suppose either it or shilling shockers have much to do with the morals of the public--we're all going to the deuce."

"Pessimistic!"

"But true. It's a game of follow my leader, with Father Adam at the head."

"Gad, he ought to have arrived at his destination by this time!"

"Oh! we'll all find that out when we get there."

"But' you forget we start in this new country with all the old-world civilisation."

"Yes, and all the old-world vices."

"Which are a natural concomitant of aforesaid civilisation."

"How abusive you all are," said Kitty, shrugging her shoulders; "people are not so bad as you make out."

"No, they're worse," said Delp lightly. "Put on your diamonds and go through Victoria like that young person in Moore's song, 'Rich and rare were the gems she wore,' you won't be treated as well, I promise you."

"I'm afraid I'm very careless of my diamonds," laughed Kitty; "I certainly take them home from the theatre every night, but I generally put the case safely away in the drawer of my looking-glass."

"A very safe place," observed Lazarus approvingly; "for illustration see Poe's story of 'The Purloined Letter.'"

"All the same, I wouldn't trust to fiction for suggestions," said Fenton gaily; "some night you'll be minus your jewels."

"I'll take the risk," retorted Kitty rising. "I'm going into the drawing-room. Mr. Lazarus, you come also. I have got the score of that new opera-bouffé 'Eblis,' and I want you to try it."

"Bah! a failure in town," growled Mortimer.

"That doesn't necessarily mean a failure in Melbourne," replied Kitty, and with this parting shot she went away, followed by the ladies and Ezra Lazarus. Keith remained behind, and, lighting a fresh cigarette, listened to the conversation, which was now slightly horsey.

"I know what's going to win the cup.

"Never knew a man who didn't."

"This is true, 'Devil-may-care.'"

"An outsider."

"They generally win, but don't prophesy too soon."

"No, or like Casandra, your prophecies won't be believed."

"Who is Casandra--another dark 'un?"

"No--a woman."

"Talking about women, I wish you'd get more chorus girls, Mortimer."

"Got quite enough."

"Of course--quantity, not quality."

"They've been snubbing you?"

"Wrong again; they never snub any one who can give them diamonds."

"Which you can't."

"No, by Jove. I wish I had some myself--say Caprice's."

"Don't grudge them to her, dear boy--the savings of years."

Every one grinned.

Meanwhile, Keith grew tired of this scintillating talk, and leaving Ezra rattling away at a gallop in the drawing-room, he arose and went out into the hall. Glancing carelessly up the stairs, he saw a little figure in white coming down.

"Why, Meg," said Keith, going to the foot of the stairs to receive her, "what are you doing at this hour of the night?"

"Meg wants mumsey," said the child, putting her arms round his neck.

"Mumsey's busy," replied Keith, lifting her up. "I'll take you back to bed, dear."

"Don't want to go to bed," said the child, though she could hardly keep her eyes open.

Keith laughed, and rocked her slowly to and fro in his arms for a few minutes, humming softly till Meg grew tired.

"Will Meg go to bed now?" he whispered, seeing she had closed her eyes.

"Yes! Meg's sleepy."

Keith went upstairs with the quiet little figure in his arms, and seeing an open door leading to a room in which there was a subdued light, caused by the lowering of the gas, he went in, and finding Meg's cot, placed her in it, and tucked her carefully in.

"Good-night, dear," he whispered, kissing her.

"Good-night, mumsey; good-night, God," murmured Meg, thinking she was saying her prayers, and fell fast asleep.

Keith went downstairs again, and met Fenton in the hall.

"Say!" exclaimed that gentleman, "where have you been?"

"Putting Meg to bed," replied Stewart, laughing. "I found her wandering about like an unquiet spirit," and having no desire for a conversation with Fenton, he strolled off to the drawing-room leaving the American looking after him with an angry frown.

No one was in the drawing-room but Ezra and the ladies--the former being seated at the piano playing over the music of "Eblis," while Kitty Marchurst stood beside him, looking over his shoulder. Lazarus had just finished a valse, which was not by any means original, being made out of reminiscences of other music.

"There's only one decent thing in the whole opera," said Kitty impatiently--"this," and she hummed a few bars; "it's called, 'Woman's Deceit.'"

"Disagreeable title," said Keith idly.

"But a capital song," retorted Kitty "Eblis sings it--that's the principal character."

"You seem anxious to play the devil," said Stewart, with a smile.

"What do you mean?"

Keith shrugged his shoulders.

"Eblis is the Oriental name for the Devil."

"Oh, I understand." Kitty's quick perception seized the idea at once. "Yes, there would be some fun in playing such a character."

"Then give myself and Lazarus a commission to write you a part. I am anxious to make a start, and I think Lazarus would write charming music. I'll be librettist, and, of course, can write the character to suit you."

Kitty glanced critically at him.

"Can you compose music," she asked Lazarus.

In answer, he played a charming gavotte, bright and crisp, with a quaint rhythm.

"Very pretty," said Kitty critically, "but not my style. Play something with a little more 'go' in it."

"Like this?" He brought his hands down on the ivory keys with a tremendous crash, and plunged into a wild fantastic galop that made everybody long to dance. Kitty clapped her hands, and her whole face lighted up with enthusiasm as the brilliancy and dash of the melody carried her away.

"Bravo!" she cried, when he finished. "That's what I want; write me music like that, and I'll engage to have it produced. You'll do. Now, sir," turning to Keith, "what's your idea?"

"Rather a burlesque than opera-bouffe," he answered; "what would you say to 'Faust Upset?'"

"Ah, bah! we've had so many burlesques on Faust."

"Not such a one as I propose to write. I intend to twist the whole legend round; make Miss Faust a Girton girl who has grown old, and longs for love, invokes the Power of Evil, enter Caprice as Miss Mephistopheles, a female demon, rejuvenates Miss Faust by paint and powder, takes her to see Mr. Marguerite, who is a young athlete, and so throughout the whole legend; to conclude with Miss Mephistopheles falling in love with Mr. Marguerite, and disputing possession with Miss Faust."

"Ha! ha!" laughed Kitty, "what a capital idea. It will be new, at all events; but I won't decide till I see the first act complete; if it's as good as it promises, I'll get Mortimer to stage it after 'Prince Carnival.'"

Keith was delighted, as now he seemed to have obtained a chance of seeing what he could do. Ezra smiled, and nodded to Stewart.

"I told you she'd be a good friend," he said.

The gentlemen all came into the room, and in a short time there was a perfect babel of voices talking about everything and everyone. Suddenly Fenton, with a half-smoked cigar in his hand, entered the room and crossed over to Kitty.

"There's a rough-looking man outside who wants to see you," he said quietly.

"What's his name?"

"Villiers."

Kitty turned a little pale.

"The husband of Madame Midas," she said, in an annoyed tone. "Where is he?"

"Walking up and down in front of the dining-room."

"Remain here; I'll see him," she said, in a decided tone, and, without being noticed, left the room.

On entering the dining-room, she found Mr. Villiers seated at the supper-table drinking champagne from a half-empty bottle, having entered through the window.

"What do you want?" she asked, coming down to him.

Mr. Villiers was in his usual condition of intoxication, and began to weep.

"It's Kitty, dear little Kitty," he said, in a maudlin tone, "the friend of my dear wife."

"Your dear wife," said Kitty scornfully; "the woman you deceived so shamefully; she was well quit of you when she went to live in England."

"She left me to die alone," wept Villiers, filling his glass again, "and only lets me have a hundred pounds a year, and she's rolling in money."

"Quite enough for you to get drunk on," retorted Kitty. "What do you want?"

"Money."

"You sha'n't get a penny."

"Yes I shall. You talk about me treating my wife badly; what about you--eh?"

Kitty clenched her hands.

"I did treat her badly," she said, with a cry. "God help me, I've repented it often enough since!"

"You were a nice girl till you met Vandeloup," said Villiers. "Ah, that confounded Frenchman, how he made me suffer!"

"Leave Vandeloup alone; he's dead, and it will do no good you reviling him now. At all events, he was a man, not a drunkard."

"She loves him still, blow me!" hiccupped Mr. Villiers rising--"loves him still."

"Here's a sovereign," said Kitty, thrusting some money into his hand. "Now, go away at once."

"I want more."

"You won't get more. Get away, or I'll order my servants to turn you out."

Villiers staggered up to her.

"Will you, indeed? Who are you to talk to me like this? I'll go now, but I'll come back, my beauty! Don't try your fine airs on me. I'll get money from you when I want it; if I don't, I'll make you repent it."

Kitty stood looking at him like a statue of marble, and pointed to the open window.

"I spare you for your wife's sake," she said coldly. "Go!"

Villiers lurched towards the window, then, turning round, shook his fist at her.

"I've not done with you yet, my fine madam," he said thickly. "You'll be sorry for these fine airs, you----"

He staggered out without saying the vile word, and disappeared in the darkness.

A vile word, and yet what was that Mrs. Malton said about her child blushing for her father? God help her, would Meg live to blush for her mother? Kitty put out her hands with a sob, when a burst of laughter from the next room sounded in her ears. The momentary fit of tenderness was over, and, with a harsh laugh, she poured out a glass of champagne and drank it off.

"My world is there," she muttered. "I must part with the child for her own good, and she will lead that virtuous, happy life which a miserable wretch like myself can never hope to reach."