"No, merely a man who has become tired of the higher immorality, and wants something else to do." Gobion laughed and got up. "I'm going to the Palace for an hour or two." "May I come?" said the stranger; "my name is Jones." "Please do. I am called Yardly Gobion. I shouldn't like to be called Jones, it's not a pretty name." The other smiled, he was not vexed; Gobion knew his man. They drove swiftly to the Palace through the lighted streets, talking a little on the way. When they went into the stalls the hysterio-comic of the hour was leaping round the stage in frenzied pirouettes between the verses of her song. The suggestive music of the dance pulsed through the audience, and when the time sank into the rhythm of the verse, they sat back in their seats with expectant eyes, and a little sigh of delight and anticipation. Miss Mace, in her song "It's a Family Characteristic," was the talk of London. The _risqué_ nature of the words, her wonderful art in singing them, her naughty eyes, the twitching of her somewhat large mouth--all the lewd papers of the baser sort yelled over her in ecstasy every Wednesday morning. "I wonder what they pay her a week," said Mr. Jones. Gobion hadn't an idea, but he said "sixty pounds" confidently. "Really! She certainly is very clever." "The best thing I find about her is that she is in wonderful sympathy with her audience, especially too when she is drunk--much funnier then." "Imagine how often the average faddist would invoke the Deity during her turn," said the stranger something sententiously. "His deity, you mean," answered Gobion. "The average man of the _Echo_-reading type thinks God is a policeman in the service of the Purity party." "You coruscate; let us go to the American bar." "That's a good idea; the presiding gentleman who makes the drinks is an artist. The mingled science and art with which he compounds whimsical beverages is wonderful. Half of him seems impulse and nervous force as he rattles the pounded ice and flourishes the glasses, while the other half looks in and puts the finishing touches." "You talk nonsense very pleasantly," said Mr. Jones. "What will you have?" "Oh! a sherry cobbler, please, _with_ straws." "Are you a connoisseur in drinks?" "Not yet; I hope to be." "I will take you to a place where you may learn." "Please do; drinks are more than a cult, they are a science. To a man I knew at Oxford they were a religion." He was thinking of Condamine. "There are so many religions nowadays." "Yes; the sham of yesterday takes an alias and calls itself the religion of the future." "I hate the faddist." "What _do_ you like?" "I haven't many likes left now. I like to be amused as much as possible." After a time they left the music-hall, and while they were walking through clubland the stranger permitted himself more freedom of expression, talking cynically. He was a middle-aged man, and Gobion amused him immensely.