“What are they talking about?” asked the American millionaire of Dickey, his curiosity aroused by the laughter of a moment before. “About as nasty as they can,” growled Dickey. “That's their style, you know.” “Whew! You don't have much of an opinion of nobility. Beware of the prince,” said the other, in a low tone. “You couldn't insult some of them with a deliberate and well-aimed kick,” remarked the younger man, sourly. The Duke Laselli's ears turned a shade pinker under his oily, swarthy skin, for the words penetrated them in spite of the speaker's caution. “A toast,” said the Russian prince, arising from his seat beside Ravorelli. The guests arose and glasses almost met in a long line above the center of the table. Ugo alone remained seated as if divining that they were to drink to him. For the first time Quentin closely observed the Russian. He was tall and of a powerful frame, middle-aged and the possessor of a strong, handsome face on which years of dissipation had left few weakening marks. His eyes were narrow and as blue as the sky, his hair light and bushy, his beard coarse and suggestive of the fierceness of the wild boar. His voice was clear and cutting, and his French almost perfect. “We drink to the undying happiness of our host, the luckiest prince in all the world. May he always know the bliss of a lover and never the cares of a husband; may his wedded state be an endless love story without a prosaic passage; may life with the new Princess of Ravorelli be a poem, a song, a jub late, with never a dirge between its morn and its midnight.” “And a long life to him,” added Quentin, clearly. As they drank the eyes of Prince Ugo were upon the last speaker, and there was a puzzled expression in them. Count Sallaconi's black eyebrows shot up at the outer ends and a curious grimness fastened itself about his mouth and nose. “I thank you, gentlemen,” responded Ugo, arising. “Will you divide the toast with me in proposing the happiness of the one who is to bring all these good things into my life?” The half-emptied glasses were drained. Dickey Savage's eyes met Quentin's in a long look of perplexity. At last an almost imperceptible twinkle, suggestive of either mirth or skepticism, manifested itself in his friend's eyes and the puzzled observer was satisfied. When, in the end, the diners pushed their chairs back from the table and passed into another room, it was far past midnight, and the real revelry of the night was at hand. Reckless, voluptuous women from the vaudeville houses and dance halls appeared, and for hours the wine-soaked scions of nobility reeked in those exhibitions which shock the sensibilities of true men. Four men there were who tried to conceal their disgust while the others roared out the applause of degenerates. “I am not a saint, but this is more than I can stand. It is sickening,” said Quentin.