Sybarite sat:
"But I don't _want_ anything more to drink!"
P. Sybarite looked that way. The owner of the voice (now again
drowned) was apparently a youngster of twenty years--not more--clean
of limb and feature, with a hot flush discolouring his good-looking
face, a hectic glitter in his eyes, and a stubborn smile on his lips.
Lounging low in a straight-backed chair, with 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.
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