A skilfully set table is a beautiful sight. There is something about the combination of white linen, flowers, silver, and glass which touches a chord in the masculine heart.... Perhaps this bears out the boyish belief that the Chinese place the seat of the emotions in the stomach. Potter's eye took note of the number and variety of the glasses. Michigan would be afflicted by drought in May, but the drought had not arrived; here was promised a deluge. The party seated themselves, and as each man lifted his napkin he found under it a cigarette-case of gold, engraved with his monogram.... Such cases, Potter knew, could not be had for a ten-dollar bill; indeed, he doubted if ten such bills would be sufficient. This night La Mothe was not flying near the ground. Financial worries did not seem to hover in his neighborhood. Those cigarette-cases, Potter said to himself, would have maintained a soldier in the field for twelve months. With the cocktail started the entertainment of which Fred had boasted. A miniature stage with curtain and scenery had been erected at one end of the room, and upon it a performance went forward throughout the dinner. It was there. One might watch it if he chose, or might disregard it for conversation with his neighbor. It was an incident, but not an inexpensive incident. Fred's idea of a proper cabaret seemed to consist in such sights as the safety of the performers would not permit in a cold room. There was nothing gross. Fred was possessed of too much of the esthetic for that; all was artistically done, skilfully done by performers of no mean grade.... The more perfect the art the less necessary the apparel--that seemed to be the basic rule. Eldredge sat next Potter; across from him and lower down the table sat O'Mera and Cantor, side by side. Potter had not expected to see Cantor there.... Potter glanced about. There was not a young man present who could not have afforded to give this entertainment or who was amazed at the luxury of it.... He did not glance at Cantor. The sight of the man was hateful to him; the surge of hatred which welled up from his heart held him tense, forgetful of his surroundings, and he sat staring moodily at the table before him. La Mothe perceived his mood and called, jovially: "Come out of it, Potter. The mourners aren't due yet. Wait till we have a little poker."