And Laura, there, wouldn’t she make a mother?  Can’t you see the child in the curve of her arm against her breast!  They’re the best of the boiling, I know,—­a new country always gathers the best,—­but there’s something wrong, Corliss, something wrong.  The heats of life have passed with me, and my vision is truer, surer.  It seems a new Christ must arise and preach a new salvation—­economic or sociologic—­in these latter days, it matters not, so long as it is preached.  The world has need of it.”

The room was wont to be swept by sudden tides, and notably between the dances, when the revellers ebbed through the great doorway to where corks popped and glasses tinkled.  Colonel Trethaway and Corliss followed out on the next ebb to the bar, where fifty men and women were lined up.  They found themselves next to Lucile and the fellow in the yellow wolf-skin cap.  He was undeniably handsome, and his looks were enhanced by a warm overplus of blood in the cheeks and a certain mellow fire in the eyes.  He was not technically drunk, for he had himself in perfect physical control; but his was the soul-exhilaration which comes of the juice of the grape.  His voice was raised the least bit and joyous, and his tongue made quick and witty—­just in the unstable condition when vices and virtues are prone to extravagant expression.

As he raised his glass, the man next to him accidentally jostled his arm.  He shook the wine from his sleeve and spoke his mind.  It was not a nice word, but one customarily calculated to rouse the fighting blood.  And the other man’s blood roused, for his fist landed under the wolf-skin cap with force sufficient to drive its owner back against Corliss.  The insulted man followed up his attack swiftly.  The women slipped away, leaving a free field for the men, some of whom were for crowding in, and some for giving room and fair play.

The wolf-skin cap did not put up a fight or try to meet the wrath he had invoked, but, with his hands shielding his face, strove to retreat.  The crowd called upon him to stand up and fight.  He nerved himself to the attempt, but weakened as the man closed in on him, and dodged away.

“Let him alone.  He deserves it,” the colonel called to Vance as he showed signs of interfering.  “He won’t fight.  If he did, I think I could almost forgive him.”

“But I can’t see him pummelled,” Vance objected.  “If he would only stand up, it wouldn’t seem so brutal.”

The blood was streaming from his nose and from a slight cut over one eye, when Corliss sprang between.  He attempted to hold the two men apart, but pressing too hard against the truculent individual, overbalanced him and threw him to the floor.  Every man has friends in a bar-room fight, and before Vance knew what was taking place he was staggered by a blow from a chum of the man he had downed.  Del Bishop, who had edged in, let drive promptly at the man who had attacked his employer, and the fight became general.  The crowd took sides on the moment and went at it.