The two friends contrasted strikingly with each other. An audible crack sounded in the kitchen and Mark slumped backwards, unconscious. A pane of glass was shivered by each stone. Wood, in a whisper, as he filled a rummer to the brim, not to forget the health of the Chevalier de Saint George—a proposition to which the lady immediately responded by drinking the toast aloud. Valade, who was standing by her chair, glancing around the packed pink-papered saloon with a heavy frown on his face, was a thickset man of coarse, reddened feature, with a discontented air. The rest of the crowd followed suit with weak laughter.
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