It was difficult to think of this corpulent, bullying brawler as one of the leading newspaper men of the metropolis; he looked so very much more like a shoddy loafer from the underworld. His legs were still fairly steady, although his head was quite the reverse. His alcoholic exertions had been so ardent, however, that he sank on the couch with a loud snort of satisfaction. "Where’s Janet Barr?" he demanded, after getting his breath. "I followed her to Charlotte’s flat, but she wasn’t there. That’s where Lydia Dyson said she was going to, the little liar." Cornelia shook her finger at him in mock remonstrance. "You have seen quite enough of Janet for one night, Hutch, judging from reports that have reached me. I’d be doing no more than was good for you if I put Mrs. Burley on your trail." "What d’ye think Lizzie’d do?" he roared. "She’d scratch your eyes out for your pains!" He gave himself up to a burst of horrible guffaws. As Robert looked at the man’s gross, overheated, pitted face and at the Falstaffian neck and trunk, he was overcome with intense disgust. This disgust was only in part shared by Cornelia. True, she did not relish Burley in his present drunken condition, but ordinarily she confessed to a curious weakness for him. "There’s something about the brute that I like," she once frankly said. She found his grossness and animal passion a relief from the refinement and fastidiousness of men like Robert. There was a certain quantitative satisfaction in the spectacle of his enormous bulk at her feet. Anyhow, all male slaves looked alike to her, the fact being that her appetite for attention or devotion was at once undiscriminating and insatiable. Meanwhile Burley had turned to Robert. "Listen, my boy," he said, clamorously, "when you marry, get a good stupid dray horse like my dame. One that’ll believe in you even if God Almighty’s against you. A good plodding dray horse. That’s the best recipe I know for marital felicity." In an explosion of repellent laughter he roared out his self-applause. "You know as much about women as about this tunic I’m cutting out," said Cornelia, rebuking him mildly with her voice, but not at all with her eye. "Well, Corny," said Hutchins, in high excitement, "I’ll tell you what I _do_ know about them." He rose from the lounge and dumped himself amorously on one of the arms of her easy chair. "There are only three things a man need do to make a hit with women: give ’em food, give ’em clothes, give ’em hugs. It’s a sure-fire rule for managing them, too." He roared louder than ever. Robert wished Cornelia wouldn’t encourage him under a pretense of doing the reverse. "Now, Hutch, go home, please," she said, prompted by his silent disapproval. "You’ll wake up all the neighbors with your loud laughter. Remember, the walls here are as thin as cardboard." By way of answer, the irrepressible roisterer put his arm familiarly around her waist and tried to draw her back into the chair.