The perennial bore, who noses into everything in order to sniff his own wit, sauntered amiably from group to group, pouring out jests as murky as the night itself.  He saw none of the scowls nor heard the toe-taps; he went blithely along his bridgeless way.

“I say, Brown, I saw your wife on the street yesterday, but she didn’t see me,” he observed to the blase-looking man in corduroys.

“Ya-as,” returned the other, calmly staring past him; “so she told me last night.”  The bore and his blissful smile passed on to the next group.  There, two or three women were chatting with as many men, yawning and puffing at their cigarettes, bored by the risque stories the men were telling, but smiling as though they had not already heard them from other men.  Occasional remarks, dropped softly into the ears of the women, may have brought faint blushes to their cheeks, but the firelight was a fickle consort to such changes.  The sly turn of a sentence gave many a double meaning; the subtle glance of the eye intended no harm.  Dobson’s new toast to “fair women” earned a roar of laughter, but afterwards Dobson was called to account by a husband who realised.  A man over in the corner was thumping aimlessly on the piano; a golf fanatic was vigorously contending that he had driven 243 yards against the wind; a tennis enthusiast was lamenting the fact that the courts were too soft to be used; there was a certain odour of rain-soaked clothes in the huge room, ascendant even above the smell of cigarettes.  Altogether, it was a night that owed much to the weather.

Mrs. Scudaway, dashing horsewoman and exponent of the free rein, was repeating the latest story concerning an intimate friend of every one present—­and, consequently, absent.

“She’s just sailed for Europe, and that good-looking actor friend of the family happened to go on the same steamer,” she was saying with a joyous smile.

“Accidents will happen,” remarked some one, benevolently.

“Where’s her husband?  I haven’t seen him with her in months,” came from one of the men.

“Oh, they have two children, you know,” explained Mrs. Scudaway.

“Delicate, I hear,” said Miss Ratliff.

“Naturally; he nurses them,” said Mrs. Scudaway, blowing smoke half-way across the room through her delicate nostrils.

“I say, Mrs. Scudaway,” cried the rapt bore, “don’t you ever do anything but inhale?”

“Yes, I exhale occasionally.  No, thanks,” as he held forth an ash tray.  Then she flecked the ashes into the fireplace, ten feet away.

“Good Lord, it’s a rotten night!” repeated the big man, returning dismally from a visit to the window.  “There’s a beastly fog mixed in with the rain.”

“Better blow the fog horn for Henderson,” said Ratliff, with a jerk of his thumb.  “He’s half seas over already and shipping a lot of water.”  Henderson, the convivial member, was on his third siphon.