Fitzroy snorted in disbelief as he watched the debutante positively staggered away from the dance floor, swaying not unlike a dandelion in a breeze. The fellow who had, presumably, been her most recent dance partner looked relieved that the song had drawn to a close, and was making a very clear effort to get as far from the drunk young lady as possible. Such intoxication was not a common site at society events, in spite of the free-flowing libations; most respectable (and even disreputable) guests knew to drink only enough to lighten the spirits and blur the mind slightly, to be so plainly drunk was, at best, a mortifying embarrassment.

"I've two sickles that say she's ill upon her next dance partner," he remarked to his companions. Camilla was off... Camilla-ing, leaving Fitzroy Prewett largely to his own devices until he retrieved her later for a dance (and hopefully the pair returned home for another sort of dance altogether). Given his wife's presence, this could not mean unabashedly flirting or stealing off to dark corners, so apparently, the wizard had turned to light gambling.

Would she even make it to a next dance, he wondered, or would a sharp-eyed friend or chaperon wisk her away for her own protection (and that of her reputation)?

To one of the men, he added, grinning, "I do hope that's not you, [Surname]!"