His own caste would take care of that; his own sort would manage such affairs.

Meanwhile Neergard had presumed to annoy them, and the society into which he had forced himself and which he had digestively affected, was now, squid-like, slowly turning itself inside out to expel him as a foreign substance from which such unimportant nutrition as he had afforded had been completely extracted.
He looked at Ruthven, scarcely seeing him.

Finally he gathered his thick legs under to support him as he rose, stupidly, looking about for his hat.
Ruthven rang for a servant; when he came Neergard followed him without a word, small eyes vacant, the moisture powdering the ridge of his nose, his red blunt hands dangling as he walked.

Behind him a lackey laughed.
* * * * * In due time Neergard, who still spent his penny on a morning paper, read about the Orchil ball.

There were three columns and several pictures.