He drew
Cuckoo to the left and Julian followed. They passed under an archway into
the bar, which was crowded with men, drinking and talking at the tops of
their voices. Valentine called for drinks in a voice so loud and
authoritative that the barmaid hurried to serve him, deserting other
customers, who protested vainly. He forced Cuckoo to drink, and Julian
needed no urging. Clinking glasses noisily with them, he gave as a toast:
"To the dance of the hours!"
These words, uttered with almost strident force, attracted attention even
amid the violent hubbub that was raging, and several young men pressed
round Valentine as he stood with his back against the counter of the bar.
They raised their glasses, too, half in ridicule, and shouting in chorus,
"To the dance of the hours!" drained them to this toast, which they could
not comprehend. Valentine dashed his glass down. It broke and was
trodden under foot. The barmaid protested. He threw her a sovereign. The
young men gathered round, broke theirs in imitation, and Julian,
snatching Cuckoo's from her, flung it away. As he did so, Valentine
thrust another, filled with champagne, into her hand, and again cried
out the toast.
"What the deuce does he mean by it?" one youth called out.
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