From cellar to attic the old mansion was ablaze with light. The large dining-room, decorated with flowers and plants, wore a festive air, and the long table in the center literally groaned under its burden of fine linen, crystal, and silver.
The dinner, now drawing to a close, had been a huge success in every way, and, with the serving of the demi-tasse, the guests sat back in their chairs, feeling that sense of gluttony satisfied which only a perfect dinner can impart. The rarest wines, the richest foods—Helen had spared no expense to make the affair worthy the occasion.
As Mr. Parker sat back and with deliberation lit the big black Corona, which his host had given him, he felt as much at ease as can a man who has dined well and knows that his affairs are prospering beyond all expectations, and, as his eyes half closed, he listened dreamily while his host, for the hundredth time, told yarns of the diamond fields, he silently congratulated himself on his astuteness in having employed so successful a messenger. He had not yet had an opportunity to ask any questions about the diamonds. He had his own reasons for not wanting those present to learn too much of his plans. There would be plenty of time when he could get the vice-president alone. So he just sat back and puffed his cigar, while around him went on the hum of conversation, punctuated here and there with bursts of laughter.
Considering his short stay at the diamond mines it was astonishing how well stocked their host was with stories. To hear him talk one might have thought he had been a miner all his life. Stimulated by copious draughts of champagne, which he contrived to make flow like water, he was highly interesting, and his listeners, greatly interested, hung on to every word.
"It must be a terrible life!" said Steell, as he lit another cigar.
The host emptied his glass and again refilled it before he answered:
"It's a life of a dog—not of a human being. The toil is incessant, the profit doubtful. You starve to death: good food is unprocurable save at prohibitive prices. One sleeps practically in the open, save for such rude shelter as each man can make for himself. The flies are a pest and constant source of danger. The water is abominable."
"You like champagne better, eh?" laughed Ray.
The gambler had already drunk more than was good for him, and, raising his glass in a mock toast, began to hum the first lines of a familiar camp ditty:
La femme qui sait me plaire
C'est la petite veuve Clicquot."