It was after such reverie that Hubert Tracy bethought himself of an
engagement he had made to join a number of acquaintances at a whist
party. He straightened himself up and cast a glance in the mirror
opposite to see if he would "pass muster" in a crowd. "Guess I'm all
right," he exclaimed, stroking his fingers through the masses of
chestnut curls that clung so prettily around his well-shaped head.
"Halloo, Tracy, not going so soon? The night's young yet, boy! Come,
sit down and have some of the 'rosy,'" shouted a rubicund-faced
youth, with a generous proportion of carrotty hair crowning his low
flat forehead.
"Sit down Tracy," exclaimed another, slapping him on the back by way
of accompaniment to the words: "We'll not go home till morning,"
which song the whole company began to roar in a style more forcible
than artistic.
When the last strains of music had spent its force and a general
interchange of silly speeches had been made, the young man once more
rose to go, but a youth with broad Scotch accent seized him by the
arm exclaiming: "Don't go yet, Tracy dear; for if ye do, ye need'nt
come back here."
"A poet of the first water," cried a voice from behind, at which all
joined in another roar of laughter, which reached its climax when a
feminine-looking youth exclaimed, "What a pity the government have
not discovered such talent! they would surely have him for poet
laureate.
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