He sat on the antique couch in the grand sitting room; larger than his apartment. All around him were the sounds of revelers, sounds of eating and drinking and laughter. Some of it even joy. Not too much though; the room was devoid of merriment. That was what he was here for. He mocked one man's shoes. Another woman's hat. He flirted with a boy, and suggested a woman murder her husband. The more biting, the more the revelers laughed and made, in fact, merry. There was no joy in their eyes, except the joy of his mockery. Each of them standing on the cherrywood floor, lifting their head in raucous amusement…until it was there turn. He would never have been invited to such a party. They gave him tea that cost more than his wages here. It sat unsipped beside him. He would not take their food. He would not make merry himself, here. He would only give it. And he gave it indeed. To the host beside the grand window, wider than his bed and showing the river, he gave no mockery. This was the third party this season; and he did not pay to receive the merriment offered. He had never been in such a place; and were his face not painted, were he not dressed so unlike his preference, patchworks of color, ruffles constricting around his wrists and neck, tighter than anything he wore at home - were he not clad as such a figure of mockery and amusement, he would not be welcome here. The revelers did not welcome such as he. They lived in their places of hardwood and vast ceilings and glittering chandeliers, and he lived in an apartment with three men, two of them born men, and such as he were never invited to such revelry.