Couples and groups paused to talk near him, and whenever he caught a sentence it was the merest chatter, meaningless repetition of commonplaces which, but for habit, must have been an unutterable weariness to the least intelligent of mortals.

He was resolved never to come here again; never again to upset his peace of mind and sully his self-respect by grimacing amid such a crowd.

He enjoyed human fellowship, timely merry-making; but to throng one's house with people for whom, with one or two exceptions, one cared not a snap of the fingers, what was this but sheer vulgarism?
As for Alma Frothingham, long ago he had made up his mind about her.

Naturally, inevitably, she absorbed the vulgarity of her atmosphere.

All she did was for effect: it was her cue to pose as the artist; she would keep it up through life, and breathe her last, amid perfumes, declaring that she had 'lived herself out'.
In his peevishness he noticed that women came up from supper with flushed cheeks and eyes unnaturally lustrous.