That meant a bad night for him; yet he shrank more from the certain misinterpretation of a refusal to drink from the huge loving-cup with its heavy wreath of scented orchids, now already on its way toward him, than he feared the waking struggle so sure to follow.
Marion received the cup, lifted it in both hands, and said distinctly, "Good Hunting!" as she drank to Quarrier.

Her brother Gordon took it, and drank entirely too much.

Then Sylvia lifted it, her white hands half buried among the orchids: "To you!" she murmured for Siward's ear alone; then drank gaily, mischievously, "To the best shot at Shotover!" And Siward took the cup: "I salute victory," he said, smiling, "always, and everywhere! To him who takes the fighting chance and wins out! To the best man! Health!" And he drank as a gentleman drinks, with a gay bow to Quarrier, and with death in his heart.
Later, the irony of it struck him so grimly that he laughed; and Sylvia, beside him, looked up, dismayed to see the gray change in his face.
"What is it ?" she faltered, catching his eye; "why do you--why are you so white ?" But he only smiled, as though he had misunderstood, saying: "The survival of the fittest; that is the only test, after all.

The man who makes good doesn't whine for justice.

There's enough of it in the world to go round, and he who misses it gets all that's due him just the same." Later, at cards, the aromatic odour from Alderdene's decanter roused him to fierce desire, but he fought it down until only the deadened, tearing ache remained to shake and loosen every nerve.