As the first impressions of the whole affair grew dull and blunt by the lapse of time, this humble penitential mood of Vandover’s passed away and was succeeded by a feeling of gloomy revolt, a sullen rage at the world that had cast him off only because he had been found out.  He thought it a matter of self-respect to resent the insult they had put upon him.  But little by little he ceased to regret his exile; the new life was not so bad as he had at first anticipated, and his relations with the men whom he knew best, Ellis, Geary, and young Haight, were in nowise changed.  He was no longer invited anywhere, and the girls he had known never saw him when he passed them on the street.  It was humiliating enough at first, but he got used to it after a while, and by dint of thrusting the disagreeable subject from his thoughts, by refusing to let the disgrace sink deep in his mind, by forgetting the whole business as much as he could, he arrived after a time to be passably contented.  His pliable character had again rearranged itself to suit the new environment.

Along with this, however, came a sense of freedom.  Now he no longer had anything to fear from society; it had shot its bolt, it had done its worst, there was no longer anything to restrain him, now he could do anything.

He was in precisely this state of mind when he received the cards for the opening of the roadhouse, the “resort” out on the Almshouse drive, about which Toby, the waiter at the Imperial, had spoken to him.

Vandover attended it.  It was a debauch of forty-eight hours, the longest and the worst he had ever indulged in.  For a long time the brute had been numb and dormant; now at last when he woke he was raging, more insatiable, more irresistible than ever.

The affair at the roadhouse was but the beginning.  All at once Vandover rushed into a career of dissipation, consumed with the desire of vice, the perverse, blind, and reckless desire of the male.  Drunkenness, sensuality, gambling, debauchery, he knew them all.  He rubbed elbows with street walkers, with bookmakers, with saloonkeepers, with the exploiters of lost women.  The bartenders of the city called him by his first name, the policemen, the night detail, were familiar with his face, the drivers of the nighthawks recognized his figure by the street lamps, paling in the light of many an early dawn.  At one time and another he was associated with all the different types of people in the low “sporting set,” acquaintances of an evening, whose names grew faint to his recollection amidst the jingle of glasses and the popping of corks, whose faces faded from his memory in the haze of tobacco smoke and the fumes of whisky; young men of the city, rich without apparent means of livelihood, women and girls “recently from the East” with rooms over the fast restaurants; owners of trotting horses, actresses without engagements, billiard-markers, pool-sellers and the sons of the proprietors of halfway houses