Hamil turned to speak to her.  She seemed to be, at a casual glance, the sort of young girl who usually has a mother somewhere within ear-shot.  Upon inspection, however, her bright hair was a little too perfectly rippled, and her mouth a trifle fuller and redder than a normal circulation might account for.  But there remained in the eyes something as yet unquenched.  And looking at her, he felt a sense of impatience and regret that the delicate youth of her should be wasted in the flare and shadow of the lesser world—­burning to a spectre here on the crumbling edge of things—­here with Malcourt leering at her through the disordered brilliancy of that false dawn which heralds only night.

They spoke together, smilingly formal.  He had quietly turned his back on Malcourt.

She hoped he would remain and join them; and her as yet unspoiled voice clashed with her tinted lips and hair.

He was sorry—­politely so—­thanking her with the natural and unconscious gentleness so agreeable to all women.  And as in his manner there was not the slightest hint of that half-amused, half-cynical freedom characteristic of the worldly wise whom she was now accustoming herself to meet, she looked up at him with a faint flush of appreciation.

Malcourt all the while was pulling Hamil by the elbow and talking on at random almost boisterously, checking himself at intervals to exchange familiar greetings with new-comers passing the crowded corridor.  His face was puffy and red; so were his lips; and there seemed to be a shiny quality to hair and skin prophetic of future coarsening toward a type, individuals of which swarmed like sleek flies around the gaming-tables beyond.

As Hamil glanced from the young girl to Malcourt, who was still noisily importuning him, a sudden contempt for the man arose within him.  So unreasoningly abrupt was the sensation of absolute distrust and dislike that it cut his leave-taking to a curt word of refusal, and he turned on his heel.

“What’s the matter with you?  Aren’t you coming with us?” asked Malcourt, reddening.

“No,” said Hamil.  “Good-bye, Miss Wilming.  Thank you for asking me.”

She held out her hand, uncertainly; he took it with a manner so gentle and considerate that she ventured, hesitatingly, something about seeing him again.  To which he replied, pleasantly conventional, and started toward the door.

“See here, Hamil,” said Malcourt sharply, “is there any reason for your sudden and deliberate rudeness to me?”

“Is there any reason for your sudden and deliberate familiarity with me?” retorted Hamil in a low voice.  “You’re drunk!”

Malcourt’s visage crimsoned:  “O hell!” he said, “if your morals are as lofty as your mincing manners—­”

Hamil stared him into silence, hesitated, then passed in front of him and out of the door.

Vicious with irritation, Malcourt laid his hand on the girl’s arm:  “Take it from me, Dolly, that’s the sort of citizen who’ll sneak around to call on your sort Saturday evenings.”