The strange seizure returned,--exile,
danger, incomprehensibility, settled down upon him, cold and steady as
the rain. Tea, at Heywood's house, was followed by tobacco, tobacco by
sherry, and this by a dinner from yesterday's game-bag. The two men said
little, sitting dejected, as if by agreement. But when Heywood rose, he
changed into gayety as a man slips on a jacket.
"Now, then, for the masked ball! I mean, we can't carry these long
faces to the club, can we? Ladies' Night--what larks!" He caught up his
cap, with a grimace. "The Lord loveth a cheerful liar. Come ahead!"
On the way, he craned from his chair to shout, in the darkness:--
"I say! If you can do a turn of any sort, let the women have it. All the
fun they get. Be an ass, like the rest of us. Maskee how silly! Mind
you, it's all hands, these concerts!"
No music, but the click of ivory and murmur of voices came down the
stairway of the club. At first glance, as Rudolph rose above the floor,
the gloomy white loft seemed vacant as ever; at second glance,
embarrassingly full of Europeans. Four strangers grounded their cues
long enough to shake his hand.
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