If the Duke of Trent had consulted his own inclination he would have risen and protested against this trifling with treason. But, like most men who are deprived of the sense of humour, James Stuart was keenly sensitive to ridicule, and he dared not expose himself to the merciless wit of this crew of profligates. He bitterly repented the false step he had taken in sitting down amongst them, but he sought in vain for any means of extrication. Meanwhile the orator concluded with a felicitous reference to the occasion of the feast. One Dishonourable Brother--in fact, the founder of their Order, he said--had shown that it was possible to emulate, if not to surpass, the exploits of the humble hooligan. By his magnificent defiance of the day before he had struck dismay into the mercenary ranks of their hereditary foes--he need not say he meant the trading class, whose shameful supremacy had made England unfit to live in. Their gallant host had plundered the hostile camp of a sum which represented one of the greatest triumphs ever achieved over the Philistine. He called upon him, in their name, not to pay this _canaille_ a farthing in the pound. And he called upon them to drink confusion to the respectable classes, coupled with the name of their Arch Decadent! Everyone rose to his feet to drink the toast, with the exception of the bankrupt himself, and his brother, who tried to conceal his disgust under an air of amused tolerance. Alistair Stuart was conscious of his brother’s real feeling, and resented it all the more because he was half ashamed of his own part in the buffoonery. His tone became louder and more insolent as he gulped down glass after glass of spirits, and called upon one or other of his guests to keep up the entertainment. Nobody dared call upon the Secretary of State. They all knew enough to feel that he was a stranger in the camp, if not a spy, and only the emphasized indifference of Stuart to his brother’s presence gave them courage to go on. The presence of this representative of all that they professed to loathe and despise, looking on with chill disapproval, dashed their spirits unexpectedly, and even to their own ears their customary jests took on a hollow sound. Presently it came to the turn of a youth seated opposite to the Duke. He was of a pale and sickly countenance, the whiteness of his face being accentuated by the black locks which he allowed to grow down to his neck. His tie was a black sash with flowing ends like that worn by French Art students in the quarter of Batignolles. He did not appear to be much more than twenty, and answered to the name of Egerton Vane. “Who is he?” Trent asked his neighbour.