t of
the Mass....

At last he rose to his feet. It was a quarter to twelve, and time for
him to go. He went up the hall, treading on lobster claws and someone's
wig, and looking about him for a certain person. He could not see him
among the group of revellers that stood in the space before the large
folding-doors, and for a minute a hand closed over his heart as he
feared that for once the person whom he sought had gone home before
morning. But presently he saw a long chair by the wall, and on its
cushions a blotched face and a gross, full body. He bent over the chair
and whispered, "De Rojas, de Rojas!" But the fat man slept. Hatred
gushed up in him, and a joy that the night was secure, and he passed on
to the folding-doors. But from the little group that was gathered round
the table, which before the dinner had supported the Winged Victory that
now lay spread-eagled on the floor, there stepped Pessoa. He bade him
good-night and thanked him for a riotous evening, but perceived that
Pessoa was waving a cocked revolver at him and saying something about
Leonore. What could he be saying? It appeared incredible, even to-night,
that he should really be saying that every departing guest must kiss
Leonore's back and swear that it was the most beautiful back in Brazil.

He looked along the avenue of revellers that had turned grinning to see
how his English stiffness would meet the occasion, and saw poor Leonore.
She was sitting on the table, one hand holding her pink wrapper to her
breast and the other patting back a yawn, and her nightdress was pulled
down to her waist so that her back was bare. Such a broad, honest back
it was, for she was the thick type of Frenchwoman, and might have stood
as a model for Millet's "Angelus." She looked over her shoulder and
smiled at him benignantly, perplexedly, and he saw that she was unhappy.
They had fetched her down from her warm bed, whither doubtless she had
gone with hopes of having a good night's rest for once, since Hermes was
giving a stag-dinner. They had not even given her time to wipe off all
the cold cream, some of which lay in an ooze round her jaw and temples,
or to take the curl-papers out of her hair, which still sported some
white snippets of the _Jornal de Commercio_. She bore no malice, the
good soul was saying to herself, but once a woman is in her bed she
likes to stay there: still, men are men, and mad, so what can one
expect?

He would not treat her lightly, nor s