The people talked. A dull roar came from them, fed by voices, by shuffling feet, by the moving of garments and papers and bodies. They all moved. No one was still. The human mass, spread so thinly in the hollow shell of the hall, moved like maggots.
The Inger leaned forward, watching. His eyes were lit and his breath quickened. His huge frame obscured the outlook of a little white-faced youth who sat beside him, continually stroking and twisting at a high and small moustache.
“Sit back, sir, can’t you?” this exasperated youth finally demanded.
The Inger, his hand spread massively as he leaned on his leg, tossed him a glance, over shoulder, and with lifted brows.
“Why, you little lizard,” he observed, only, and did not change his posture.
A group of men and women in evening clothes sat beside Lory, who frankly stared at them. One of the women, elderly, pallidly powdered, delicately worn down by long, scrupulous care of her person, sat with one blue and boned hand in evidence, heavily clad with rings.
“Look at the white bird’s claw,” the Inger said suddenly. “I’d like to snap it off its bloomin’ stem.”
And as the people ceased to come in, and now were merely sitting there, breathing, and incredibly alive, he suddenly spoke aloud: