Outcries and gesticulations confirmed the happy thought. Tea over,
Piers was dismissed to the bedroom (very bare and uncomfortable,
this) to don his evening suit, and by six o'clock the trio set
forth. They drove in a cab to festive regions, and, as one to the
manner born, Alexander made speedy arrangements for their banquet.
An odd-looking party; the young man's ceremonious garb and not
ungraceful figure contrasting with his brother's aspect of Bohemian
carelessness and jollity, whilst Bridget, adorned in striking
colours, would have passed for anything you like but a legitimate
and devoted spouse. Once again did Piers stifle his conscience in
face of the exhilarating bottle; indeed, he drank deliberately to
drown his troubles, and before the second course had already to some
extent succeeded.

Alexander talked of his journalistic prospects. Whether there was
any special reason for hopefulness, Piers could not discover; it
seemed probable that here also the windfall of fifty pounds had
changed the aspect of the world. To hear him, one might have
supposed that the struggling casual contributor had suddenly been
offered some brilliant appointment on a great journal; but he
discoursed with magnificent vagueness, and could not be brought to
answer direct questions. His attention to the wine was unremittent;
he kept his brother's glass full, nor was Bridget allowed to shirk
her convivial duty. At dessert appeared a third bottle; by this
time, Piers was drinking without heed to results; jovially,
mechanically, glass after glass, talking, too, in a strain of
nebulous imaginativeness. There could be little doubt, he hinted,
that one of his Parliamentary friends (John Jacks had been
insensibly multiplied) would give him a friendly lift. A