They laughed again over this mild pleasantry; a cordial understanding was developing between them, which meant much to Grandcourt, for he was a lonely man and his shyness had always deprived him of what he most cared for—­what really might have been his only resource—­the friendship of other men.

For some time, while they were talking, Duane had noticed out of the corner of his eye another man at a neighbouring table—­a thin, pop-eyed, hollow-chested, unhealthy young fellow, who, at intervals, stared insolently at Grandcourt, and once or twice contrived to knock over his glass of whiskey while reaching unsteadily for a fresh cigarette.

The man was Stuyvesant Quest, drunk as usual, and evidently in an unpleasant mood.

Grandcourt’s back was toward him; Duane paid him no particular attention, though at moments he noticed him scowling in their direction and seemed to hear him fussing and muttering over his whiskey and soda, which, with cigarettes, comprised his luncheon.

“I wish I were going up to Roya-Neh with you,” repeated Grandcourt.  “I had a bully time up there—­everybody was unusually nice to me, and I had a fine time.”

“I know they’ll ask you up whenever you can get away,” said Duane.  “Geraldine Seagrave likes you immensely.”

“Does she?” exclaimed Grandcourt, blushing.  “I’d rather believe that than almost anything!  She was very, very kind to me, I can tell you; and Lord knows why, because I’ve nothing intellectual to offer anybody, and I certainly am not pretty!”

Duane, very much amused, looked at his watch.

“When does your train leave?” asked Grandcourt.

“I’ve an hour yet.”

“Come up to my room and smoke.  I’ve better whiskey than we dispense down here.  I’m living at the club, you know.  They haven’t yet got over my fiasco at home and I can’t stand their joshing.”

Neither of the men noticed that a third man followed them, stumbling up the stairs as they took the elevator.  Duane was seated in an easy chair by the fire, Grandcourt in another, the decanter stood on a low table between them, when, without formality, the door opened and young Quest appeared on the threshold, white, self-assertive, and aggressively at his ease: 

“If you fellows don’t mind, I’ll butt in a moment,” he said.  “How are you, Mallett?  How are you?” giving Grandcourt an impertinent look; and added:  “Do you, by any chance, expect your friend Dysart in here this afternoon?”

“Dysart is no longer a member of this club,” said Grandcourt quietly.  “I’ve told you that a dozen times.”

“All right, I’ll ask you two dozen times more, if I choose,” retorted Quest.  “Why not?” And he gave him an ugly stare.

The man was just drunk enough to be quarrelsome.  Duane paid him no further attention; Grandcourt asked him very civilly if he could do anything for him.

“Sure,” sneered Quest.  “You can tell Dysart that if I ever come across him I’ll shoot him on sight!  Tell him that and be damned!”