The room in which they were now seated was very small and opened directly upon the passage.  On either side of the table was a seat that would hold two, and on the wall opposite the door hung a mirror, its gilt frame enclosed in pink netting.  The table itself was covered with a tolerably clean cloth, though it was of coarse linen and rather damp.

There were the usual bottles of olives and pepper sauce, a plate of broken crackers, and a ribbed match-safe of china.  The sugar bowl was of plated ware and on it were scratched numberless dates together with the first names of a great many girls, “Nannie,” “Ida,” “Flossie.”

Between the castor bottles was the bill of fare, held by a thin string between two immense leather covers which were stamped with wine merchants’ advertisements.  Geary reached for this before any of the others, saying at the same time, “Well, what are you going to have? I’m going to have a Welsh rabbit and a pint of ale.”  He looked from one to the other as if demanding whether or no they approved of his choice.  He assumed the management of what was going on, advising the others what to have, telling Vandover not to order certain dishes that he liked because it took so long to cook them.  He had young Haight ring for the waiter, and when he had come, Geary read off the entire order to him twice over, making sure that he had taken it correctly.  “That’s what we want all right, all right—­isn’t it?” he said, looking around at the rest.

The waiter, whose eyes were red from lack of sleep, put down before them a plate of limp, soft shrimps.

“Hello, Toby!” said Vandover.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” answered Toby.  “Why, good evening, Mr. Vandover; haven’t seen you ’round here for some time.”  He took their order, and as he was going away, Vandover called him back: 

“Say, Toby,” said he, “has Flossie been around to-night?”

“No,” answered Toby, “she hasn’t shown up yet.  Her running-mate was in about nine, but she went out again right away.”

“Well,” said Vandover, smiling, “if Flossie comes ’round show her in here, will you?”

The others laughed, and joked him about this, and Vandover settled back in his seat, easing his position.

“Ah,” he exclaimed, “I like it in here.  It’s always pleasant and warm and quiet and the service is good and you get such good things to eat.”

Now that the young fellows were by themselves, and could relax that restraint, that good breeding and delicacy which had been natural to them in the early part of the evening at the Ravises’, their manners changed:  they lounged clumsily upon their seats, their legs stretched out, their waistcoats unbuttoned, caring only to be at their ease.  Their talk and manners became blunt, rude, unconstrained, the coarser masculine fibre reasserting itself.  With the exception of young Haight they were all profane enough, and it was not very long before their conversation became obscene.