Two young men leaned against the wall of the dancing-room, close to
the door, both smoking cigars. They wore evening dress, considerably
rumpled, and their attitudes were careless. The elder of the two was
Tony Mostyn, a clever but dissipated artist of the decadent school, who
steered his life by the rule of indulgence and worked as little as
possible.

"It's rather dull," he said; "eh, old chap?"

"It gives one a bad taste," his companion replied. "I don't see why you
brought me here."

The second speaker was Jack Vernon. He looked bored and weary, but his
cheeks were flushed and his eyes sparkled; the women who glanced pertly
at him as they swung by inspired him merely with disgust. He had come to
the club with Mostyn, after a dozen turns at the Alhambra, followed by a
prolonged theater supper. He had drunk more than was good for him during
the course of the evening, but the effects had about worn off.

The story of the past two weeks--since Jack's return from India--was a
sad one. He tried his best to drown the bitter memories of Madge, of
what he had lost. He cut loose from Jimmie and other old friends, took
lodgings in an out-of-the-way quarter, and turned night into day. He had
plenty of money, and he had not been near the office of the _Universe_.
He found boon companions among the wildest acquaintances of his Paris
days, including Tony Mostyn and his set. But a fortnight had dispelled
the glamour, and life looked blacker to him than it had ever looked
before. Courage and manhood were at a low ebb. He laughed recklessly
as he wondered what the end would be.

"Let us go and get a drink," he said to his companion.

As he spoke a tumult broke out at the far end of the room. Scuffling
feet and men's angry voices mingled with cries of protest and women's
shrill screams. Then followed a heavy fall, a groan, and a rush of
people. The music had stopped and the dancers were still.

"There's been a row," exclaimed Mostyn. "It's bad for the club."

Idle curiosity led Jack to the spot, and Mostyn accompanied him.
They elbowed their way through, and saw a flashily-dressed man with
blue-black cheeks and a curling black mustache lying on the floor. He
was bleeding from an ugly wound on the forehead, where he had been
struck by a bottle. His assailant had slipped away, scared, and was
being smuggled out of the room and down stairs by his friends.

"What a shame!" ejaculated a terrified woman.

"It's no fair fighting