_my_ affairs. But I found
there was something else. After we had seen the printing machinery, and
so on, he took me up to the top of the building into a small room,
where there was just a table and a chair and a bookshelf; and he told
me it was his first office, the room in which he had begun business
thirty years ago. He has always kept it for his own, and just as it
was--a fancy of his. There's no harm in my telling you; he's very proud
of it, and so am I. That's energy!'

'Very interesting indeed.'

'I must go up again,' she added quickly. 'Oh, there's miss Beaufoy; do
let me introduce you to Miss Beaufoy.'

She did so, unaware of Rolfe's groaning reluctance, and at once
disappeared.

The supper-room began to fill. As soon as he could escape from Miss
Beaufoy, who had a cavalier of her own, Harvey ascended the stairs
again, and found a quiet corner, where he sat for a quarter of an hour
undisturbed. Couples and groups paused to talk near him, and whenever
he caught a sentence it was the merest chatter, meaningless repetition
of commonplaces which, but for habit, must have been an unutterable
weariness to the least intelligent of mortals. He was resolved never to
come here again; never again to upset his peace of mind and sully his
self-respect by grimacing amid such a crowd. He enjoyed human
fellowship, timely merry-making; but to throng one's house with people
for whom, with one or two exceptions, one cared not a snap of the
fingers, what was this but sheer vulgarism? As for Alma Frothingham,
long ago he had made up his mind about her. Naturally, inevitably, she
absorbed the vulgarity of her atmosphere. All she did was for effect:
it was her cue to pose as the artist; she would keep it up through
life, and breathe her last, amid perfumes, declaring that she had
'lived herself out'.

In his peevishness he noticed that women came up from supper with
flushed cheeks and eyes unnaturally lustrous. What a grossly sensual
life was masked by their airs and graces! He had half a mind to start
tomorrow for the Syrian deserts.

'Do let us see you again soon,' said his hostess, as he took leave of
her. 'Come in at five o'clock on Wednesday, that's our quiet day; only
a few of our _real_ friends. We shall be in town till Christmas, for
certain.'

On the stairs he passed Mr. Felix Dymes, the composer of 'Margot'.

'Oh, it's the easiest thing in the world,' Mr. Dymes was saying, 'to
compose a song that will be popular.