On the short intervals of silence, the high complaining note of tumblers, standing close together and vibrating to the shock, lingered, growing fainter, till it leapt up again into tumultuous ringing, when a new idea started a new rush of words and brought down the heavy hand again.

At last the quarrelsome shouting ceased, and the thin plaint of disturbed glass died away into reluctant quietude.
Babalatchi and Mrs.Almayer had listened curiously, their bodies bent and their ears turned towards the passage.

At every louder shout they nodded at each other with a ridiculous affectation of scandalised propriety, and they remained in the same attitude for some time after the noise had ceased.
"This is the devil of gin," whispered Mrs.Almayer.

"Yes; he talks like that sometimes when there is nobody to hear him." "What does he say ?" inquired Babalatchi, eagerly.

"You ought to understand." "I have forgotten their talk.