“I thank you, gentlemen,” responded Ugo, arising. “Will you divide the toast with me in proposing the happiness of the one who is to bring all these good things into my life?” The half-emptied glasses were drained. Dickey Savage's eyes met Quentin's in a long look of perplexity. At last an almost imperceptible twinkle, suggestive of either mirth or skepticism, manifested itself in his friend's eyes and the puzzled observer was satisfied.
When, in the end, the diners pushed their chairs back from the table and passed into another room, it was far past midnight, and the real revelry of the night was at hand. Reckless, voluptuous women from the vaudeville houses and dance halls appeared, and for hours the wine-soaked scions of nobility reeked in those exhibitions which shock the sensibilities of true men. Four men there were who tried to conceal their disgust while the others roared out the applause of degenerates.
“I am not a saint, but this is more than I can stand. It is sickening,” said Quentin.
“And these miserable specimens of European manhood delight in it,” said Savage, his face aflame with shame and disgust. “It is too vile for a man who has a breath of manhood in him to encourage, and yet these bounders go crazy with rapture. Gad, don't ask what kind of women they are. Ask how it is the world has ever called these fellows men.”
“Did I understand you correctly, sir?” asked a cold voice at his side, and Dickey turned to look into the flaming eyes of Prince Kapolski. Count Sallaconi was clutching the left arm of the big Russian, and there was a look of dismay in his face. He flashed a glance of fierce disappointment at Quentin, and then one of helplessness across the room at Prince Ugo.
“If you understand English you probably did,” said Dickey, pale but defiant.
“Come, prince,” began the agitated count, but Kapolski shook him off.
“You must apologize for your comments, sir,” said the prince, in excellent English.
“I can't apologize, you know. I meant what I said,” said Dickey, drawing himself up to the limit of his five feet ten. The Russian's open hand came violently in contact with the young fellow's cheek, driving the tears to the surface of his eyes They were tears of anger, pain and mortification, not of submission or fear.
His clenched right hand shot outward and upward, and before the Russian knew what had happened a crashing blow caught him full in the jaw, and he would have gone sprawling to the floor had not Diego Sallaconi caught him in his arms. Quentin grasped Dickey and pulled him away, while others rushed in and held the roaring, sputtering victim.