Somers kept himself hard and in command, face set, eyes watchful. He felt his cup had been filled now. He watched these buffoons in this great room, as he sat there n***d save for his jacket, and he felt that from his heart, from his spine went out vibrations that should annihilate them—blot them out, the canaille , stamp them into the mud they belonged to.
He was called at length to the table.
“ What is your name?” asked one of the old parties. Somers looked at him.
“ Somers,” he said, in a very low tone.
“ Somers—Richard Lovat?” with an indescribable sneer.
Richard Lovat realised that they had got their knife into him. So! He had his knife in them, and it would strike deeper at last.
“ You describe yourself as a writer.”
He did not answer.
“ A writer of what
