, in
informal groups, playing dominoes, chatting, or engrossed in their
Extra Specials. The fire shone cheerfully beneath the high mantel,
and the pleasant lamplight lent a mellow glow, which was vaguely
suggestive of Dutch interiors, as it flickered on the dark wooden
floor, and glanced from the array of china on the dresser in the
corner.

When Lightmark entered, closing the door briskly on the foggy, chill
October night, he was greeted warmly and demonstratively. The
fraternity which made Brodonowski's its head-quarters generously
admired his genius, and, for the most part, frankly envied his
good-fortune. The younger men respected him as a man who had seen
life; and the narratives with which he occasionally favoured them
produced in such of his hearers feelings very different to those
which older men, like Oswyn, expressed by a turn of the eyebrow or a
shrug. They were always ready enough to welcome him, to gather round
him, and to drink with him; and this, perhaps, expresses the limits
of their relation.

"Lightmark, by Jove!" cried one of them, waving his pipe in the air,
as the new-comer halted in the low doorway, smiling in a rather
bewildered manner as he unbuttoned his overcoat. "Welcome to the
guerilla camp! And a dress suit! These walls haven't enclosed such a
thing since you went away. This is indeed an occasion!"

Lightmark passed from group to group, deftly parrying, and returning
the chorus of friendly thrusts, and shaking hands with the
affability which was so characteristic a feature of his attitude
toward them. The man he looked for, the friend whom he intended to
honour with a somewhat tardy confidence of his happiness, was not
there. When he asked for Rainham, he was told that "the dry-docker,"
as these flippant youngsters familiarly designated the silent man,
whom they secretly revered, had gone for an after-dinner stroll, or
perchance to the theatre, with Oswyn.

"With Oswyn?" queried Lightmark, with the shadow of a frown.

"Oh, Oswyn and he are getting very thick!" said Copal. "They are
almost as inseparable as you two used to be. I'm afraid you will
find yourself cut out. Three is an awkward number, you know. But
when did you come back? When are you going to show us your sketches?
And how long did you stay in Paris?... You _didn't_ stop in Paris?
This won't do, you know. I say, Dupuis, here's a man who didn't stop
in Paris! Ask him if he wants to insult you."

"Ah, mon cher!" expostulat