As the sound dies away, he
murmurs: "Tres Joli!" and opens another oyster. Two Ladies with
bare shoulders and large hats pass down the corridor. Their
talk is faintly wafted in: "Well, I never like Derby night! The
boys do get so bobbish!" "That horn--vulgar, I call it!"
ARNAUD'S eyebrows rise, the corners of his mouth droop. A Lady
with bare shoulders, and crimson roses in her hair, comes along
the corridor, and stops for a second at the window, for a man to
join her. They come through into the room. ARNAUD has sprung
to attention, but with: "Let's go in here, shall we?" they pass
through into the further room. The MANAGER, a gentleman with
neat moustaches, and buttoned into a frock-coat, has appeared,
brisk, noiseless, his eyes everywhere; he inspects the peaches.
MANAGER. Four shillin' apiece to-night, see?
ARNAUD. Yes, Sare.
From the inner room a young man and his partner have come in.
She is dark, almost Spanish-looking; he fair, languid, pale,
clean-shaved, slackly smiling, with half-closed eyes-one of
those who are bred and dissipated to the point of having lost
all save the capacity for hiding their emotions. He speaks in
a----
LANGUID VOICE. Awful row they're kickin' up in there, Mr. Varley.
A fellow with a horn.
MANAGER. [Blandly] Gaddesdon Hunt, my lord--always have their
supper with us, Derby night. Quiet corner here, my lord.
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