her, and
grandfather were all in the middle of things. M. Defourcambault had an
immense and unfair advantage over him. To whatever heights he might
rise, George would never be in a position to talk as M. Defourcambault
talked of his forbears. He would always have to stand alone, and to
fight for all he wanted. He could not even refer to his father. He
scorned M. Defourcambault because M. Defourcambault was not worthy of
his heritage. M. Defourcambault was a little rotter, yet he had driven
the carriage of Boulanger in a crisis of the history of France! Miss
Wheeler, however, did not scorn M. Defourcambault. On the contrary, she
looked at him with admiration, as though he had now proved that he had
been everywhere, seen everything, and done everything. George's mood was
black. He was a nobody; he would always be a nobody; why should he be
wasting his time and looking a fool in this new world?

II

After dinner, in the drawing-room which had cost Irene Wheeler an extra
flat, there was, during coffee, a certain amount of general dullness,
slackness, and self-consciousness which demonstrated once more Miss
Wheeler's defects as a hostess. Miss Wheeler would not or could not act
as shepherdess and inspirer to her guests. She reclined, and charmingly
left them to manufacture the evening for her. George was still
disappointed and disgusted; for he had imagined, very absurdly as he
admitted, that artistic luxuriousness always implied social dexterity
and the ability to energize and reinvigorate diversion without apparent
effort. There were moments during coffee which reminded him of the
maladroit hospitalities of the Five Towns.

Then Everard Lucas opened the piano, and the duel between him and
Laurencine was resumed. The girl yielded. Electric lights were adjusted.
She began to play, while Lucas, smoking, leaned over the piano. George
was standing by himself at a little distance behind the piano. He had
perhaps been on his way to a chair when suddenly caught and immobilized
by one of those hazards which do notoriously occur--the victim never
remembers how--in drawing-rooms. Hands in pockets, he looked aimlessly
about, smiling perfunctorily, and wondering where he should settle or
whether he should remain where he was. In the deep embrasure of the
large east bow-window Lois was lounging. She beckoned to him, not with
her hand but with a brief, bright smile--she smiled rarely--and with a
lifting of the chin. He responded a