“I don’t think I care so much for it,” interposed Mrs. Carter. “One gets tired of sad happenings. We have enough drama in real life.” Cowperwood and Braxmar smiled faintly. Berenice looked contemplatively away. The crush of diners, the clink of china and glass, the bustling to and fro of waiters, and the strumming of the orchestra diverted her somewhat, as did the nods and smiles of some entering guests who recognized Braxmar and herself, but not Cowperwood. Suddenly from a neighboring door, opening from the men’s cafe and grill, there appeared the semi-intoxicated figure of an ostensibly swagger society man, his clothing somewhat awry, an opera-coat hanging loosely from one shoulder, a crush-opera-hat dangling in one hand, his eyes a little bloodshot, his under lip protruding slightly and defiantly, and his whole visage proclaiming that devil-may-care, superior, and malicious aspect which the drunken rake does not so much assume as achieve. He looked sullenly, uncertainly about; then, perceiving Cowperwood and his party, made his way thither in the half-determined, half-inconsequential fashion of one not quite sound after his cups. When he was directly opposite Cowperwood’s table—the cynosure of a number of eyes—he suddenly paused as if in recognition, and, coming over, laid a genial and yet condescending hand on Mrs. Carter’s bare shoulder. “Why, hello, Hattie!” he called, leeringly and jeeringly. “What are you doing down here in New York? You haven’t given up your business in Louisville, have you, eh, old sport? Say, lemme tell you something. I haven’t had a single decent girl since you left—not one. If you open a house down here, let me know, will you?” He bent over her smirkingly and patronizingly the while he made as if to rummage in his white waistcoat pocket for a card. At the same moment Cowperwood and Braxmar, realizing quite clearly the import of his words, were on their feet. While Mrs. Carter was pulling and struggling back from the stranger, Braxmar’s hand (he being the nearest) was on him, and the head waiter and two assistants had appeared. “What is the trouble here? What has he done?” they demanded. Meanwhile the intruder, leering contentiously at them all, was exclaiming in very audible tones: “Take your hands off. Who are you? What the devil have you got to do with this? Don’t you think I know what I’m about? She knows me—don’t you, Hattie? That’s Hattie Starr, of Louisville—ask her! She kept one of the swellest ever run in Louisville. What do you people want to be so upset about? I know what I’m doing. She knows me.” He not only protested, but contested, and with some vehemence. Cowperwood, Braxmar, and the waiters forming a cordon, he was shoved and hustled out into the lobby and the outer entranceway, and an officer was called.