The music sounded like a funeral march in his ears, the glitter, the heat, the movement, seemed unendurable; and he threaded his way round the room to an ante-room which had been fitted up as a buffet.
"Give me some wine, please," he said to the butler, trying to speak in his ordinary tone; but he knew that his voice was harsh and strained, knew that the butler noticed it, though the well-trained servant did not move an eyelid, but opened a bottle of champagne with solemn alacrity and poured out a glass.

Stafford signed to him to place the bottle near and drank a couple of glasses.
It pulled him together a bit, and he was going back to the ball-room when several men entered.

They were Griffenberg, Baron Wirsch, the Beltons and the other financiers; they were all talking together and laughing, and their faces were flushed with triumph.

Close behind them, but grave and taciturn as usual, came Mr.Falconer.
At sight of Stafford, Mr.Griffenberg turned from the man to whom he was talking and exclaimed, gleefully: "Here is Mr.Orme! You have herd the good news, I suppose, Mr.Orme?
Splendid isn't it?
Wonderful man, you father, truly wonderful! He can give us all points, can't he, baron ?" The baron nodded and smiled.
"Shir Stephen ish a goot man of pishness.

You have a very glever fader, Mr.Orme!" he said, emphatically.
Efford caught Stafford's arm as he was passing on with a mechanical smile and an inclination of the head.
"We've come in for a drink, Orme," he said.