In another room the so-called bawdy section,
presided over by the dubious Mr. Hopkins, were discussing topics not
adapted to polite ears. The artistic group, sadly thinned by the
ejection of four of its more imaginative and virile members who had
distinguished themselves in the fray, now consisted solely of two
youngsters, a black-and-white man and a literary critic; they sat in a
corner by themselves, talking about colour-values in maudlin strains.
The ordinary club-group had, as usual, installed themselves in the most
comfortable chairs on the balcony. They were boozing steadily, like
gentlemen, and having no end of fun with the poor little Norwegian
professor and his miscalculations. One of them--a venerable toper of
Anacreontic youthfulness known as Charlie who turned up on Nepenthe at
odd intervals and whom the oldest inhabitant of the place had never
seen otherwise than in a state of benevolent fuddle--was saying to him:
"Instead of filling yourself up with whisky in that disgusting fashion,
my friend, you ought to travel.
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