“Oh yes, it is! I insist,” said Mrs. Viveash, commanding peremptorily from her death-bed. Gumbril drank his gin and Sauterne. “Very well then,” he said reluctantly, and began. “I don’t know what my governor will say,” the young man put in once or twice. But nobody paid any attention to him. He relapsed into a sulky and, it seemed to him, very dignified silence. Under the warm, jolly tipsiness he felt a chill of foreboding. He poured out some more whisky. Gumbril warmed to his anecdote. Expiringly Mrs. Viveash laughed from time to time, or smiled her agonizing smile. Coleman whooped like a Redskin. “And after the concert to these rooms,” said Gumbril. Well, let everything go. Into the mud. Leave it there, and let the dogs lift their hind legs over it as they pass. “Ah! the genuine platonic fumblers,” commented Coleman. “I am Grimaldi,” Gumbril laughed. Further than this it was difficult to see where the joke could go. There, on the couch, where Mrs. Viveash and Coleman were now sitting, she had lain sleeping in his arms. “Towsing, in Elizabethan,” said Coleman. Unreal, eternal in the secret darkness. A night that was an eternal parenthesis among the other nights and days. “I feel I’m going to be sick,” said the young man suddenly. He had wanted to go on silently and haughtily sulking; but his stomach declined to take part in the dignified game. “Good Lord!” said Gumbril, and jumped up. But before he could do anything effective, the young man had fulfilled his own prophecy. “The real charm about debauchery,” said Coleman philosophically, “is its total pointlessness, futility, and above all its incredible tediousness. If it really were all roses and exhilaration, as these poor children seem to imagine, it would be no better than going to church or studying the higher mathematics. I should never touch a drop of wine or another harlot again. It would be against my principles. I told you it was emetic,” he called to the young man. “And what are your principles?” asked Mrs. Viveash. “Oh, strictly ethical,” said Coleman. “You’re responsible for this creature,” said Gumbril, pointing to the young man, who was sitting on the floor near the fireplace, cooling his forehead against the marble of the mantelpiece. “You must take him away. Really, what a bore!” His nose and mouth were all wrinkled up with disgust. “I’m sorry,” the young man whispered. He kept his eyes shut and his face was exceedingly pale. “But with pleasure,” said Coleman. “What’s your name?” he asked the young man, “and where do you live?” “My name is Porteous,” murmured the young man. “Good lord!” cried Gumbril, letting himself fall on to the couch beside Mrs. Viveash. “That’s the last straw!” CHAPTER XVII