He pushed the girls away from him, strode over to the corner and stood beside the mysterious one. He stood over her, breathing heavily, looking down at her. She glanced at his knees from under her eyelids. Then she puffed at her cigarette, flicked something off her sleeve with her thumb and forefinger and went on reading her newspaper. The other women looked on silently with narrowed eyes. The men began to smile. Everybody was interested in what the fur-coated woman would do. Gypo sat down beside her. He sat on the floor with his back to the wall. “Aren’t ye hot wearin’ that fur coat?” he said. She did not reply. There was a titter from the women. “What’s all the news in the paper about?” continued Gypo. The woman did not reply. One of the men burst into laughter, making a sound like an explosion, as if his mouth had been full of laughter a long time and it suddenly burst out. “Horrid man! Go ’way,” said somebody else, mimicking the voice of a timid and refined woman. Gypo’s face darkened and his throat veins swelled ominously. But just then the drinks arrived. He jumped to his feet and rushed over to the pimp who was carrying them. He drained one glass of whisky, then another, then another. An outcry arose. “Hey, don’t drink the lot.” “Savage.” “What d’ye mean by callin’ a drink for us an’ then swallowin’ ’em all yoursel’?” “Hey! Stop him, Johnny. Take the tray away from him.” “You all go to the divil,” gasped Gypo. The whisky rushing down his throat had taken his breath away. “Wait there. There’s lots more.” He pulled out another pound note and tossed it to Aunt Betty carelessly. “There ye are,” he cried, “go an’ get more drinks.” Then amid the delighted yells of the girls he drained three more glasses one after the other, each one at a gulp, while the women danced around him.