the arm of a chair, leaning back against Gina Lunelli's broad shoulder.
It was confusing to come into such an intimate party.

Tommy looked round, and broke off in the middle of what he was saying,
and got off the table. He was glad Venables had come. Venables
apologized.

'How are you, Crevequer?... But I'm interrupting you; I'll come in
another time.'

But Tommy drew him in, and introduced him to Betty, and to Luli and Gina
and all the rest, and offered him wine. It was a convivial gathering;
Venables, being a stranger, and wearing a rather clean collar, perhaps
threw a shade of restraint over it, but mirth broke out again before
long. At last, with common accord, the company took its leave--all but
Venables.

'Well, how are you Crevequer? I've been looking for you, you know, all
over the place.'

Tommy had almost forgotten how much he had admired Venables once; it
returned to him now as they talked. He would have liked to see a good
deal of Venables. Venables painted, he learnt--painted successfully,
Tommy presumed, looking at the clean collar and the well-cut coat. It
was perhaps a pity, Tommy reflected, his melancholy eyes, under their
quick, amused brows, turning from Venables to his sister, that he and
Betty were not better dressed to-day. Venables was probably a person of
prejudices, and his collar was very clean.

Venables learned that Crevequer was a journalist.

'What's your paper?'

'That.' Tommy indicated _Marchese Peppino_ on the table; it came out
that day.

'Oh.'

Venables just glanced at it; he showed no desire to inspect it more
closely; possibly he knew enough about it already. His clever face was
scrupulously devoid of expression.

'I chiefly do sketches,' Tommy elaborated. 'You know the sort of thing?
They aren't funny, not a bit; but they sell. Oh, I write for it, too, of
course; and that's funnier, rather. _Novelle in corto_, you know; we
have the news in, as much as if we were anybody; combine instruction
with amusement, don't you know.'

Venables knew quite well.

'I wonder,' he thought afterwards, '_why_ he shoved it down my throat
like that. Mere cheek, perhaps, or to show he didn't mind, or to warn me
off at once in case I didn't like his style. Or doesn't he really,
perhaps, realize....'

Not really to realize, Crevequer must have pushed very far from the
shores of decency.

Venables let the topic of _Marchese Peppino_ lie where Tommy had dropped
it. He delivered his mo