"Of course, all our set," murmured Serge de Illyne candidly; "we are going to Reginald Rhodes's—you must know the name, for he is already celebrated—the English poet. He has condescended to read us a poem this evening, an unpublished poem, on a fascinating subject."
"Which is?"
"'Narcissus' is the title."
"Ah," exclaimed Lucio Sabini, at the height of impatience, "and you want me to come as well? Are there to be ladies there?"
"Oh, no, no!" exclaimed Serge, with a gesture of annoyance; "we never have women with us."
"You dislike them, eh?" sneered Lucio.
"We don't dislike them. We think them vain, silly, useless creatures," said de Illyne contemptuously.
"Well, if there are no women I can't come," concluded Lucio, smiling sarcastically; "I like women's society."
"Dommage, dommage!" murmured the Russian, in his melodious voice.
"This evening I have a lover's tryst," said Lucio Sabini roughly.