To-night there was no departure from the
ordinary course of things, except that there was slightly more
stir. The dinner was a larger one than usual. It came to
Beatrice's turn very soon after their arrival, and Tavernake,
squeezing his way a few steps into the dining-room, stood with
the waiters against the wall. He looked with curious eyes upon a
scene with which he had no manner of sympathy.
A hundred or so of men had dined together in the cause of some
charity. The odor of their dinner, mingled with the more
aromatic perfume of the tobacco smoke which was already ascending
in little blue clouds from the various tables, hung about the
over-heated room, seeming, indeed, the fitting atmosphere for the
long rows of guests. The majority of them were in a state of
expansiveness. Their faces were redder than when they had sat
down; a certain stiffness had departed from their shirt-fronts
and their manners; their faces were flushed, their eyes watery.
There were a few exceptions--paler-faced men who sat there with
the air of endeavoring to bring themselves into accord with
surroundings in which they had no real concern. Two of these
looked up with interest at the first note of Beatrice's song.
The one was sitting within a few places of the chairman, and he
was too far away for his little start to be noticed by either
Tavernake or Beatrice. The nearer one, however, Tavernake
happened to be watching, and he saw the change in his expression.
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