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"Yes."

"That mad-cat is sure to be there. They won't have her in this

place now."

Dorian shrugged his shoulders. "I am sick of women who love one.

Women who hate one are much more interesting. Besides, the stuff

is better."

"Much the same."

"I like it better. Come and have something to drink. I must have

something."

"I don't want anything," murmured the young man.

"Never mind."

Adrian Singleton rose up wearily and followed Dorian to the bar.

A half-caste, in a ragged turban and a shabby ulster, grinned a

hideous greeting as he thrust a bottle of brandy and two tumblers

in front of them. The women sidled up and began to chatter.

Dorian turned his back on them and said something in a low voice

to Adrian Singleton.

A crooked smile, like a Malay crease, writhed across the face of

one of the women. "We are very proud to-night," she sneered.

"For God's sake don't talk to me," cried Dorian, stamping his

foot on the ground. "What do you want? Money? Here it is. Don't

ever talk to me again."