over the back of somebody's chair, to where she stood, and laid a small
square box done up in tissue paper at her side. She laughed and caught
him by the ear, and kissed him on both flaming cheeks.

"A precedent--fair play for all!" the man opposite Stonehouse shouted.

They came then, one after another, treading on each other's heels, and
she waited for them, an audacious figure of Pleasure receiving custom,
and kissed them, shading her kiss subtly so that each one became a
secret little joke out of the past or lying in wait in the future, at
which the rest could guess as they chose. Some of the women whom she
knew best joined in the stream. They bore her, for the most part, an
odd affinity and no ill-will. They had set out on the same road and
had failed, and their failure stared out of their crudely painted
faces. But perhaps they were grateful to her for not having forgotten
them--or for other more obscure reasons. They gave her what they
could--extemporary gifts some of them--a tawdry ring or a flower which
she stuck jauntily among the outrageous feathers. The significantly
small parcels she did not open--either from idle good nature or from
sheer indifference. Stonehouse wondered what Cosgrave's little box
contained. Probably a year or two of the mosquito-infested swamp to
which he would soon return to boast of this night's extravaganza.

"And you, _Monsieur le docteur_?"

For he had gone on eating and drinking with apparent tranquillity.

"Oh, I have nothing--nothing but admiration," he said smiling.

She shook her head.