of the "house" in which Conroy lived; and when he came to his cousin's door, he knocked before he understood that the singing was in Conroy's room.
There was a sudden silence inside. It was followed by a hasty shuffle. In a moment, someone shouted: "Come in!"
He opened the door on a group of students seated at a table, with pipes and cigarettes, in the circle of a lamplight that was so strong in their eyes they could not see him in the shadow. He stood on the threshold. "Who is it?" Conroy asked, peering against the light.
"It's—I want to speak to you a minute, Con."
"Oh, it's you! Come in here, you monk, you old hermit! All right, boys." He put back on the table an ale bottle which he had hidden under his chair, and the others brought out their glasses from between their knees and their playing cards from their pockets. "Come in here and shut the door. Get us another glass, Pittsey. Come in here and shut the door. Come on. Come in here."
Don obeyed from mere irresolution, and his cousin welcomed him with a flushed hilarity which Don, for the moment, attributed to nervousness. "Dry yourself at the fire. Bring another bottle of 'pop,' Pittsey. Whose ante is it?"
Someone replied contemptuously: "Give me three cards. We're all in a week ago."
"All right," Conroy went on, unabashed. "Here goes. They're off in a bunch. Hang your coat on the floor, Don."
