of it all! In a corner, he found young Crane and two or three other men with tumblers in their hands.
'Ah, Crane,' he said, 'for God's sake tell me where you got that drink.'
That golden fluid—it seemed the only hope. Crane pointed in the direction of the archway leading into the back drawing-room. He raised his glass without speaking, drank and winked at Gregory over the top of it. He had a face that looked like an accident. Gregory oozed on through the crowd, 'Excuse me,' he said aloud; but inwardly he was saying, 'God help us.'
At the further end of the back drawing-room was a table with bottles and glasses. The professional drunkard was sitting on a sofa near by, glass in hand, making personal remarks to himself about all the people who came within earshot.
'Christ!' he was saying, as Gregory came up to the table. 'Christ! Look at that!' That was the gaunt Mrs. Labadie in cloth of gold and pearls. 'Christ!' She had pounced on a shy young man entrenched behind the table.
'Tell me, Mr. Foley,' she began, approaching her horse-like face very close to that young man, and speaking appealingly, 'you who know all about mathematics, tell me . . .'
'Is it possible?' exclaimed the professional drunkard. 'In England's green and pleasant land? Ha, ha, ha!' He laughed his melodramatic laugh.
Pretentious fool, thought Gregory. How romantic he thinks himself! The laughing philosopher, what? Drunk because the world isn't good enough for him. Quite the little Faust.
'And Polypheme too,' Paxton soliloquised on, 'funny little Polypheme!' He laughed again. 'The heir to all the ages. Christ!'
With dignity, Gregory poured himself out some whisky and filled up the glass from the siphon—with dignity,
