At first they had been rather disconcerted by their guest. Jasper didn’t know his brother very well, it appeared. Fred knew all about New York from hearsay, and undertook to tell them. He didn’t say so; but it was clear he was a little surprised at there being no ladies included in the supper party. He drank largely of Nebiola; and unquestionably enjoyed himself; but his air of implying that there was something naughty about it all, rather dashed the others. Until Hilgy began to jolly him in his quiet way. But after Fred had been sick, he returned to the table with a pale and thoughtful cast, and they liked him better. That soft-voiced, poker-faced mockery of Hilgy’s was rather terrible. None of them was safe from it; not Hilgy himself: because when he desired sympathy, the others supposed that he was still mocking. Then Hilgy would get a little sore. He was a handsome fellow, with his silky black beard, and the subdued manner that concealed such powerful batteries. You never knew you had been hit, until a moment or two afterwards. Wilfred was in awe of him, he was so much older; almost thirty. It annoyed Hilgy that anybody should be in awe of him, so Wilfred struggled to treat him as offhandedly as Stanny and Jasper did; whereupon Hilgy, perceiving the struggle, with characteristic perversity started mocking Wilfred subtly. So intercourse was a little difficult. Yet Wilfred admired Hilgy without stint. What a privilege it was to be associated with such fellows. Wilfred doubted if there was a circle in all New York that could show the same average of brilliancy. Unfortunately he couldn’t recall any of the bright things that had been said; he hadn’t that kind of a memory; but he had the scene of the party to a hair. There were only three chairs in the room; and they had dragged up the cot to make two seats more, while Wilfred sat on an up-ended suit-case. Stanny at the head of the table—How Stanny blossomed under the influence of Nebiola, yet never lost his plaintive air; Jasper at the foot, looking down his nose with an expression of. . . . What was the word to describe Jasper’s expression when he had had a drink or two? Sly drollery? . . . no! Recondite glee! . . . no! Arch solemnity? . . . well that was better, but not _the_ phrase. I shall never be a writer! thought Wilfred sadly. Epithets do not explode in my head like they do in Stanny’s. . . . Hilgy and Binks sitting on the cot; and Fred alongside Wilfred. Five keen, vital faces to watch, revealing their characteristics in the wrinkles of merriment—well, say four faces, because Fred’s was rather a pudding; united in good fellowship, yet betraying such fascinating differences of nature, and suggesting such mysteries! Wilfred was unable to imagine a greater pleasure. When the laughter and gibes were suddenly turned against Wilfred himself, he was ready to sink under his confusion; but he liked it nevertheless. It assured him that he had an identity too.