He looked at Ruthven, scarcely seeing him. Finally he gathered his thick
legs under to support him as he rose, stupidly, looking about for his
hat.
Ruthven rang for a servant; when he came Neergard followed him without a
word, small eyes vacant, the moisture powdering the ridge of his nose,
his red blunt hands dangling as he walked. Behind him a lackey laughed.
* * * * *
In due time Neergard, who still spent his penny on a morning paper, read
about the Orchil ball. There were three columns and several pictures. He
read all there was to read about--the sickeningly minute details of
jewels and costumes, the sorts of stuffs served at supper, the cotillon,
the favours--then, turning back, he read about the dozen-odd separate
hostesses who had entertained the various coteries and sets at separate
dinners before the ball--read every item, every name, to the last
imbecile period.
Then he rose wearily, and started downtown to see what his lawyers could
do toward reinstating him in a club that had expelled him--to find out
if there remained the slightest trace of a chance in the matter.
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