“This is no longer a vulgar brawl,” said he--“but an ordered debauch.” Rippley turned and, staring at Blotte where he sat solemnly astride of the cask, blinking drunkenly from under his wreath, gave him a hail: “Cheer up, my bilious Bacchus!” cried he. “A smile to greet this picnic!” Lovegood coughed: “But what is Bacchus without the cup?” said he. Andrew Blotte, astride the cask, raised his hand as for oration, but overbalanced and tumbled from the barrel to the carpet. Several sprang to help him to his feet; and as he stood with difficulty they restored his fallen wreath. He strode with drunken solemnity into the middle of the room, towards his host, where he stood brooding before the fireplace; and as Blotte came the scowl left the hard pale face of the other, and his mouth fell open a little way--but he took command of himself in the winking of an eyelid, and the blood poured back into his heart: “My God!” slipped from him in a hoarse whisper; “Andrew Blotte!” Andrew Blotte pulled himself up to a halt, and blinking at his memory, shuffling amongst the faces that were ghosts of the past, he tried to gather his rambling thoughts together, and said with slow precision and friendly confidence: “I once knew a--fellow (hic)--rather like you.... Clean-shaven poetic-looking fellow, rather good-looking--nevertheless--rather like you.” He giggled drunkenly. “He--_he_ thought he could paint, too.” He blew through his lips. “We all thought we could do things--in Paris.... Youth lives on illusions----” It struck Paul Pangbutt as he stood there, his arms folded before him, and his eyes set on the poor drunken wreck of a once brilliant youth, that it was nothing less than devil’s irony that had sent _this_ broken man into his life _this_ night--the night which his profession might, as likely as not, have chosen to do him honour--it was the evening of the elections at the Academy. Blotte roused; and added solemnly: