It required but a moment to reach the room. The door was not wide open,
but far enough ajar for him to see what was going on within.
Two young men, members of the fast set at the Clarendon Club, were
playing cards at a small table, near which stood another, decorated with
an array of empty bottles and glasses. Sprawling on a lounge, with
flushed face and disheveled hair, his collar unfastened, his vest
buttoned awry, lay Tom Delamere, breathing stertorously, in what seemed
a drunken sleep. Lest there should be any doubt of the cause of his
condition, the fingers of his right hand had remained clasped
mechanically around the neck of a bottle which lay across his bosom.
Ellis turned away in disgust, and went slowly back to the ladies.
"There seems to be no one here yet," he reported. "We came a little
early for the evening crowd. The clerk says Tom Delamere was here to
luncheon, but he hasn't seen him for several hours."
"He's not a very gallant cavalier," said Mrs. Carteret severely. "He
ought to have been waiting for us."
Clara was clearly disappointed, and made no effort to conceal her
displeasure, leaving Ellis in doubt as to whether or not he were its
object. Perhaps she suspected him of not having made a very thorough
search. Her next remark might have borne such a construction.
"Sister Olivia," she said pettishly, "let's go up to the parlor. I can
play the piano anyway, if there's no one to talk to."
"I find it very comfortable here, Clara," replied her sister placidly.
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