The atmosphere of the long, low room, with its anomalous dark ceiling and grotesquely-decorated walls, was heavily laden with the incense of tobacco and a more subtile odour, which numbered among its factors whisky and absinthe.  The slippered, close-cropped waiter, who, by popular report, could speak five languages, and usually employed a mixture of two or three, was still clearing away the debris of protracted dinners; and a few men sat about, in informal groups, playing dominoes, chatting, or engrossed in their Extra Specials.  The fire shone cheerfully beneath the high mantel, and the pleasant lamplight lent a mellow glow, which was vaguely suggestive of Dutch interiors, as it flickered on the dark wooden floor, and glanced from the array of china on the dresser in the corner.

When Lightmark entered, closing the door briskly on the foggy, chill October night, he was greeted warmly and demonstratively.  The fraternity which made Brodonowski’s its head-quarters generously admired his genius, and, for the most part, frankly envied his good-fortune.  The younger men respected him as a man who had seen life; and the narratives with which he occasionally favoured them produced in such of his hearers feelings very different to those which older men, like Oswyn, expressed by a turn of the eyebrow or a shrug.  They were always ready enough to welcome him, to gather round him, and to drink with him; and this, perhaps, expresses the limits of their relation.

“Lightmark, by Jove!” cried one of them, waving his pipe in the air, as the new-comer halted in the low doorway, smiling in a rather bewildered manner as he unbuttoned his overcoat.  “Welcome to the guerilla camp!  And a dress suit!  These walls haven’t enclosed such a thing since you went away.  This is indeed an occasion!”

Lightmark passed from group to group, deftly parrying, and returning the chorus of friendly thrusts, and shaking hands with the affability which was so characteristic a feature of his attitude toward them.  The man he looked for, the friend whom he intended to honour with a somewhat tardy confidence of his happiness, was not there.  When he asked for Rainham, he was told that “the dry-docker,” as these flippant youngsters familiarly designated the silent man, whom they secretly revered, had gone for an after-dinner stroll, or perchance to the theatre, with Oswyn.

“With Oswyn?” queried Lightmark, with the shadow of a frown.

“Oh, Oswyn and he are getting very thick!” said Copal.  “They are almost as inseparable as you two used to be.  I’m afraid you will find yourself cut out.  Three is an awkward number, you know.  But when did you come back?  When are you going to show us your sketches?  And how long did you stay in Paris?...  You didn’t stop in Paris?  This won’t do, you know.  I say, Dupuis, here’s a man who didn’t stop in Paris!  Ask him if he wants to insult you.”

“Ah, mon cher!” expostulated the Frenchman, looking up from his game of dominoes, “I would not stop in London if I could help it.”