And as he made that answer, Julian, for the first time, forgot to look up to Valentine, and felt a splendid equality with him, the equality that men of the same age and temper feel when they are bent on the same pursuit.  How can one of two Bacchanals stoop in adoration of the other, when both are bounding in the procession of Silenus?  Valentine fell from his pedestal and became a comrade instead of a god.  He was no longer the chaperon of the dancing hours, but their partner.  And a new fire shone in his blue eyes, an unaccustomed red ran over his cheeks, as he heard Julian’s answer to his question.  From that moment he ceased to play what, it seemed, had been but a part, the empty ivory rôle of saint.  For Julian was no longer conscious or observant of him, no longer able to wonder at his abrupt transformation.  In a flash he cast off his habitual restraint and passed from the reserve of thought to the rowdyism of act.

He chattered unceasingly, dressing his English in all the slang embroidery of the day.  He laughed and chaffed, exchanged repartees with the flowing multitude through which they passed, stopped to speak to the flaunting women and loaded them with extravagant compliments, elbowed loungers out of his way, and made the most personal remarks on those around him.  Two men went by, and one of them exclaimed, with a surprised glance at Valentine: 

“I’m damned!  Why, there goes the Saint of Victoria Street.”

“Saint!” said the other; “I should think devil the more appropriate name.  That chap looks up to anything.”

“Ah, well; when a saint turns sinner—­,” answered the first speaker, with a laugh.

Valentine heard the words and burst into a roar of laughter.  He drew Cuckoo to the left and Julian followed.  They passed under an archway into the bar, which was crowded with men, drinking and talking at the tops of their voices.  Valentine called for drinks in a voice so loud and authoritative that the barmaid hurried to serve him, deserting other customers, who protested vainly.  He forced Cuckoo to drink, and Julian needed no urging.  Clinking glasses noisily with them, he gave as a toast: 

“To the dance of the hours!”

These words, uttered with almost strident force, attracted attention even amid the violent hubbub that was raging, and several young men pressed round Valentine as he stood with his back against the counter of the bar.  They raised their glasses, too, half in ridicule, and shouting in chorus, “To the dance of the hours!” drained them to this toast, which they could not comprehend.  Valentine dashed his glass down.  It broke and was trodden under foot.  The barmaid protested.  He threw her a sovereign.  The young men gathered round, broke theirs in imitation, and Julian, snatching Cuckoo’s from her, flung it away.  As he did so, Valentine thrust another, filled with champagne, into her hand, and again cried out the toast.

“What the deuce does he mean by it?” one youth called out.  “The dance of the hours; what’s that?”