All the private rooms opening from either passage were full; the men came in, walking slowly, looking for their friends; but more often, the women and girls passed up and down with a chatter of conversation, a rattle of stiff skirts and petticoats, and a heavy whiff of musk.  There was a continual going and coming, a monotonous shuffle of feet and hum of talk.  A heavy odorous warmth in which were mingled the smells of sweetened whisky, tobacco, the fumes of cooking, and the scent of perfume, exhaled into the air.  A gay and noisy party developed in one of the large back rooms; at every moment one could hear gales of laughter, the rattle of chairs and glassware, mingled with the sounds of men’s voices and the little screams and cries of women.  Every time the waiter opened the door to deliver an order he let out a momentary torrent of noises.

Girls, habitues of the place, continued to pass the door of the room where Vandover and his friends were seated.  Each time a particularly handsome one went by, the four looked out after her, shutting their lips and eyes and nodding their heads.

Young Haight had called for more drinks, ordering, however, mineral water for himself, and Vandover was just telling about posing the female models in a certain life-class to which he belonged, when he looked up and broke off, exclaiming: 

“Well, well, here we are at last!  How are you, Flossie?  Come right in.”

Flossie stood in the doorway smiling good-humouredly at them, without a trace of embarrassment or of confusion in her manner.  She was an immense girl, quite six feet tall, broad and well-made, in proportion.  She was very handsome, full-throated, heavy-eyed, and slow in her movements.  Her eyes and mouth, like everything about her, were large, but each time she spoke or smiled, she disclosed her teeth, which were as white, as well-set, and as regular as the rows of kernels on an ear of green corn.  In her ears were small yellow diamonds, the only jewellery she wore.  There was no perceptible cosmetic on her face, which had a clean and healthy look as though she had just given it a vigorous washing.

She wore a black hat with a great flare to the brim on one side.  It was trimmed very dashingly with black feathers, imitation jet, and a little puff of plush—­robin’s-egg blue.  Her dress was of rough, black camel’s hair, tailor-made, and but for the immense balloon sleeves, absolutely plain.  It was cut in such a way that from neck to waist there was no break, the buttons being on the shoulder and under the arm.  The skirt was full and stiff, and without the least trimming.  Everything was black—­hat, dress, gloves—­and the effect was of a simplicity and severity so pronounced as to be very striking.

However, around her waist she wore as a belt a thick rope of oxidized silver, while her shoes, or rather walking slippers, were of white canvas.

She belonged to that class of women who are not to know one’s last name or address, and whose hate and love are equally to be dreaded.  There was upon her face the unmistakable traces of a ruined virtue and a vanished innocence.  Her slightest action suggested her profession; as soon as she removed her veil and gloves it was as though she were partially undressed, and her uncovered face and hands seemed to be only portions of her nudity.