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_!"

"Oh!" said the little man hastily--"I was only wondering.... But I
wish you would slip Red the high sign: all I want is one word with
him."

"All right, bo'--you're on."

Slouching off, obviously reluctant to interrupt the diversions of Mr.
November, the man at length mustered up courage to touch that
gentleman's elb