On this evening, therefore, the rooms were crowded with all sorts of queer people; some who thought themselves clever, but were not, and tried to make up for their lack of brains by assuming extraordinary costumes; others, who were dressed in the height of fashion only came because everyone else was there; and critics, actors, artists, and literary men all jostled one another in the crowd, and laughed to scorn the feeble efforts of the Society to find hidden talent. There was weak tea, and thin bread-and-butter, and everybody, when they were not looking at the pictures--which was seldom--talked scandal and abused their friends, so it was all very delightful and amusing. At least Monteith found it so, as he leaned against the wall, and listened to Foster's cynical comments on all who passed along, mostly friends of his own; but, after all, what is the use of having friends if one can't abuse them? "You see that bald-headed old chap there?" said Signor Asmodeus Foster, who was about to unroof his friends' houses for the benefit of the Australian, "the one with the gaunt female beside him--she was his daughter's governess, and married him by force; she bullies the life out of him, and if he but look at another woman--a thing, by the way, the old scamp is very fond of doing--he catches it when he gets home. That pretty little woman in white is Lady Aspasia, who was not as good as she might be--once--but now she's married and gives good dinners, so Society doesn't rake up her little failures in the past. We are a very generous people when there's money in the question. That young dandy, with the simper and the eye-glass, is Bertie Hardup, who a year ago had not a shilling--his face was his fortune, and a mighty nice income it brought him, for he married Miss McNab, the Scotch heiress, who has red hair and a long pedigree; he doesn't care a fig about her, and keeps Musidora, of the Frivolity, out of McNab's money. By Jove, my dear fellow, all these people have their skeletons, and if they could only become visible, you'd see every one of them attended by a bony figure like those in the Dance of Death." "Rather a ghastly assemblage," said Ronald, absently. "Not at all," replied his companion; "bless you, we love our skeletons, and, in the middle of the night, take them out and discuss our private affairs with them; then we lock them up in the little dark cupboards again, and only hear the faint rattle of their bones during the day." Ronald laughed. "You are cynical!" "The fault of the world my dear boy. I would like to go through life keeping all my youthful illusions, but the world won t let me--it has destroyed all my dreams of honour and honesty one by one till--pouf!--it has made me as disbelieving as St. Thomas." "What strange people are here," said Ronald, looking at the restless crowd.