The porter told him where Mr. Blearney’s flat was, and he took the lift. The flat had a front door like that of a house, complete with leaded window-panes and a letter-box. Even so, a consider­able amount of noise filtered through. As Charles waited for Mr. Blearney to come to the door, he thought what a curious thing enjoyment was. The sounds he could hear were made by people who had assembled to have a good time, but they might easily have been cries of anguish. Mr. Blearney’s voice, grating on as he told one of his stories, might have been the endless mumbling delirium of a man in great pain. The roars of laughter which punctuated it, reaching him muffled through two closed doors, sounded like the bellowing of a herd of cattle driven towards the slaughter-house. And one woman shrieked at intervals as if she were being disembowelled. He wondered if the Rodericks were there already.

It was not Mr. Blearney but a man in a white coat who opened the door. Charles guessed that this was Mr. Blearney’s valet, dressed in a white coat to indicate for the occasion that he was in charge of the drinks. He relieved Charles of his overcoat and showed him into the room where the party was going on.

Mr. Blearney, having just finished his story, had turned to the sideboard for some refreshment, and so had his back to the door, so that he did not notice the arrival of Charles. The guests, who had finished laughing at the dénouement of the story, had not yet begun to talk about anything else, and were, for the most part, standing looking at one another as people do at parties before they break up into small groups. They turned and looked at Charles, who at once felt embarrassment surging over him. The valet did not announce him—it was not that kind of occasion and he was not that kind of valet—and the situation was, temporarily, a complete deadlock. Charles took a step or two forward, and tried to take in the scene with a single glance.