Bertie laughed; his laugh was like himself--rather languid, but very light-hearted, very silvery, very engaging.
"Sit and smoke till breakfast time if you like, Tom; it won't make any difference to me." But the Smoke Parliament wouldn't hear of the champion of the Household over the ridge and furrow risking the steadiness of his wrist and the keenness of his eye by any such additional tempting of Providence, and went off itself in various directions, with good-night iced drinks, yawning considerably like most other parliaments after a sitting.
It was the old family place of the Royallieu House in which he had congregated half the Guardsmen in the Service for the great event, and consequently the bachelor chambers in it were of the utmost comfort and spaciousness, and when Cecil sauntered into his old quarters, familiar from boyhood, he could not have been better off in his own luxurious haunts in Piccadilly.

Moreover, the first thing that caught his eye was a dainty scarlet silk riding jacket broidered in gold and silver, with the motto of his house, "Coeur Vaillant se fait Royaume," all circled with oak and laurel leaves on the collar.
It was the work of very fair hands, of very aristocratic hands, and he looked at it with a smile.

"Ah, my lady, my lady!" he thought half aloud, "do you really love me?
Do I really love you ?" There was a laugh in his eyes as he asked himself what might be termed an interesting question; then something more earnest came over his face, and he stood a second with the pretty costly embroideries in his hand, with a smile that was almost tender, though it was still much more amused.

"I suppose we do," he concluded at last; "at least quite as much as is ever worth while.

Passions don't do for the drawing-room, as somebody says in 'Coningsby'; besides--I would not feel a strong emotion for the universe.