The table on which his attention was focussed stood against the wall, the young man sitting in the corner between November and the woman.  Of two tables between it and P. Sybarite’s, one was vacant, the other occupied by a brace of hatchet-faced male intimates of the dive and creatures of November’s—­or their looks libelled them shamefully.

It seemed unlikely that the boy could get away against the wishes of the gang leader, however steadfastly he might stand upon his determination to drink no more.  For nothing was to be hoped for from the sots, prostitutes, and parasites who made up the balance of that company:  one and all, either too indifferent or too sophisticated, if not in active sympathy with the practices of the establishment, to lift a hand to interfere....

Testimony in support of this inference P. Sybarite received within the next few minutes, when the boy’s temper abruptly veered from good-natured obduracy to open irritation.

“Damn it, no!” he cried in a high voice and with an impatient movement struck the glass from November’s hand.

Though it went to the floor with a splintering crash, the incident attracted little more than casual glances from those at neighbouring tables....

November’s countenance, however, turned grey with anger beneath its olive shade.

Momentarily his glance clashed with the woman’s; and of a sudden the paint upon her cheeks and lips stood out as starkly artificial as carmine splashed upon a whitewashed wall.  At the same time he flashed a like warning to his two followers at the next table; and the legs of their chairs grated on the tiled flooring as they shifted position, making ready for the signal to “mix in.”

At this, P. Sybarite rose and nonchalantly moved over to November; his approach remarked by the latter with an evil leer; by the woman with a start of consternation; by the boy with sudden suspicion.  Indubitably this last was beginning to question a hospitality that would not permit him to do as to him seemed best.  With relief P. Sybarite noted symptoms of this dawning distrust.  It made the problem simpler, to have the boy alive to his peril.

Pausing, P. Sybarite met November’s glare with eyes informed with an expression amazingly remote and dispassionate, and in a level and toneless voice addressed him.

“I’ve a message for you—­a hurry call—­won’t keep—­”

“Well?” snapped the gangster.  “What’s it about?  Spit it out!”

“Why, Nella says—­” P. Sybarite began deliberately; and paused to cough politely behind his hand; and leaned confidentially over the table.

At this juncture the boy pushed back his chair and rose.

“Pardon me, m’ dear,” he said thickly to the woman; “‘m goin’ home.”

“Ah, sit down,” November interrupted quickly, pitching his protean accents to a key of cajolery—­“sit down and have another.  What’s your hurry?”