Grinning amiably at this happy metaphorical description of the glass of lager regularly served at Dutch House, the waiter shouldered through the swinging doors to the bar....

Then fell a brief lull in the melange of music and tongues, during which a boyish voice lifted up in clear remonstrance at a table some three removed from that at which P. Sybarite sat: 

“But I don’t want anything more to drink!”

P. Sybarite looked that way.  The owner of the voice (now again drowned) was apparently a youngster of twenty years—­not more—­clean of limb and feature, with a hot flush discolouring his good-looking face, a hectic glitter in his eyes, and a stubborn smile on his lips.

Lounging low in a straight-backed chair, with his hands in his pockets and his head wagging obstinately, he was plainly intoxicated, but as yet at a stage sufficiently mild to admit of his recognising the self-evident truth that he needed not another drop.

Yet his companions would have him drink more deeply.

Of these, one was a woman of no uncertain caste, a woman handsome in a daring and costly gown, and as yet not old, but in whose eyes flickered a curious febrile glare ("as though,” commented P. Sybarite, moralist, “reflected back from the mouth of Hell").

The other was a man singularly handsome in a foreign way—­Italian, at an indifferent guess—­slight and graceful of person in well-tailored if somewhat flashy clothing; boasting too much jewellery; his teeth gleaming a vivid white against his dark colouring as he smiled good-humouredly in his attempts to press more drink upon the other.

The music stopped altogether for a time, and again the boy’s voice rang out clearly: 

“Tell you—­’ve had enough.”

The Italian said something urgent, in an undertone.  The woman added inaudible persuasion to his argument.  The boy looked from one to another with a semi-stupid smile; but wagged an obdurate head.

“I will not.  No—­and I don’t want—­lie down jus’ for few minutes.  I’m goin’ sit here till these—­ah—­foolish legs ’mine straighten ’emselves out—­then ’m going home.” ...

“Here’s your beer, bo’,” P. Sybarite’s waiter announced.

“Keep the change,” said the guest, tendering a quarter.

“T’anks”—­with a look of surprise.  Then familiarly knuckling the top of the table, the waiter stroked a rusty chin and surveyed the room.  “There’s Red, now,” he observed.

“Where?”

“Over there with the skirt and the kid souse.  Yuh kin see for yourself he’s busy.  D’ yuh want I sh’u’d stir him up now?”

“Oh, yes,” said P. Sybarite, in the tone of one recognising an oversight.  “What’s doing over there—­anything?” he proceeded casually.

The waiter favoured him with a hard stare.  “Red November’s business ain’t none’r mine,” he growled; “an’ less you know him a heluva sight better’n I do, you’d better take a straight tip from me and—­leave—­it—­lay!”