reflections of the inner feast. Opposite there hung a Bouguereau, which
irritated him--nymphs ought not to look as if they had come newly
unguented from a _cabinet de toilette_. Below it stood an immense
Cloisonné vase, about the neck of which was tied a scarlet silk
stocking. He remembered having seen it there on his last visit six
months before. She must have been an exceptionally careless lady. Out
here there were many ladies who were careless of their honour, but most
of them were careful enough about tangible possessions like silk
stockings. A fresh outburst in the babel at the other end of the room
did not make him turn round, though the French banker had cried in an
ecstasy, "_Tiens! c'est atroce!_" and had bounded up the hall. He sat
on, hating this ugly place of his delay, while the Frenchman and the boy
kept up an insincere, voluptuous whisper about God and the comfort of
the Mass....

At last he rose to his feet. It was a quarter to twelve, and time for
him to go. He went up the hall, treading on lobster claws and someone's
wig, and looking about him for a certain person. He could not see him
among the group of revellers that stood in the space before the large
folding-doors, and for a minute a hand closed over his heart as he
feared that for once the person whom he sought had gone home before
morning. But presently he saw a long chair by the wall, and on its
cushions a blotched face and a gross, full body. He bent over the chair
and whispered, "De Rojas, de Rojas!" But the fat man slept. Hatred
gushed up in him, and a joy that the night was secure, and he passed on
to the folding-doors. But from the little group that was gathered round
the table, which before the dinner had supported the Winged Victory that
now lay spread-eagled on the floor, there stepped Pessôa. He bade him
good-night and thanked him for a riotous evening, but perceived that
Pessôa was waving a cocked revolver at him and saying something about