At daybreak, Phil Longwill, the young American painter, entered his studio, threw away his cigar, gulped down the contents of his water-jug—and then slipped into an arm-chair and dozed. In his half-sleep he thought he was still at the Quat’z-Arts Ball, from which he had just come; he still heard the murmuring noise of the multitude, like the prolonged “moo-o-o” of oxen in the stable; and there still moved before his eyes the restless throng, masked in the skins of beasts or trailing gilt-embroidered mantles.…
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