Some of the guests made quiet preparations for leaving.

A group of those men--famous in the world of art and letters--under the influence of the wine they had taken so freely, laughed loudly at some coarse jest.

Others, thinking, perhaps,--if they could be said to think at all,--that their host's attack was not serious, renewed conversations and bravely attempted to restore a semblance of animation to the interrupted revelries.
Aaron King worked his way to the side of Conrad Lagrange, "For God's sake, old man, let's get out of here." "I'll find Rutlidge or Louise or some one," returned the other, and disappeared.
As the artist waited, through the open door of an adjoining room, he caught sight of Sibyl Andres; who, with her violin-case in her hand, was about to leave.

Obeying his impulse, he went to her.
"What in the world are you doing here ?" he said almost roughly--extending his hand to take the instrument she carried.
She seemed a little bewildered by his manner, but smiled as she retained her violin.

"I am here to earn my bread and butter, sir.