Oh, there she was, off like a shot. Don Juan was intrigued, but not enough to pursue her through the crowded party. If he'd chased her down they might well have become this parties fourth standalone vignette of unfurling dramatics: man pursues woman while she flees, wild-eyed. No, indeed not — he certainly didn't need that rumor spread about him.

He took his punch in hand and floated off towards the edge of the room, leaving the maids to worry over the punch bowl and the refreshments table, some of which was decidedly sticky by now. Had the woman he'd been chatting to said she knew the crying woman? Well, she hadn't said much of anything, but he'd gotten that impression. Even more intriguing; he hadn't thought she was here with handlers. If she had people who were supposed to be watching to ensure she didn't make a fool of herself and had managed to upset the punch bowl in spite of it, that really was impressive in its own way.

He found a seat — a hot commodity in a party where the guests outnumbered the chairs three-to-one. He intended to guard it as long as possible, particularly given that it gave him a decent view of half the party and people-watching had become his chief occupation. He set about trying to figure out who the flirtatious woman was trying to make jealous, and although it still didn't seem to be working he thought he'd narrowed it down to one of a pair of brothers. She seemed especially agitated whenever they were within earshot, although they were paying her very little mind.

He had finished his punch and was debating the merits of abandoning his seat in search of another drink; he glanced around to see how likely it was that he would immediately lose it and noticed that the woman from earlier was once again within earshot. "Hullo again," he said amicably. "Did she get into the cognac?"

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