As he danced around the room begging everybody's pardon (nobody knew what for) he complimented everybody in sight, explained the forged letter, dilated on state politics, set the Irish question on the right end, cleared Bacon[42] of all hostility to me, declined tea because he had insomnia and explained just how it works to keep you awake, danced more and declared himself happy and bowed himself out--well pleased.

He's as funny a cuss as I've seen in many a day.

Lord Cowdray, who was telling Mexican woes to Katharine in the corner, looked up and asked, "Who's the little dancing gentleman ?" Suppose X had known he was dancing for--Lord Cowdray's amusement, what do y' suppose he'd've thought?
There are some strange combinations in our house on Mrs.Page's days at home.
Cowdray has, I am sure, lost (that is, failed to make) a hundred million dollars that he had within easy reach by this Wilson Doctrine, but he's game.

He doesn't lie awake.

He's a dead-game sport, and he knows he's knocked out in that quarter and he doesn't squeal.