n.
The restoration, however, of, his self-respect proceeded with success.
For all the semblance of having grown too big for Shelton's clothes, for
all his vividly burnt face, and the quick but guarded play of cynicism on
his lips--he did much credit to his patrons. He had subdued his terror
of a razor, and looked well in a suit of Shelton's flannels. For, after
all, he had only been eight years exiled from middle-class gentility, and
he had been a waiter half that time. But Shelton wished him at the
devil. Not for his manners' sake--he was never tired of watching how
subtly the vagabond adapted his conduct to the conduct of his hosts,
while keeping up his critical detachment--but because that critical
detachment was a constant spur to his own vision, compelling him to
analyse the life into which, he had been born and was about to marry.
This process was disturbing; and to find out when it had commenced, he
had to go back to his meeting with Ferrand on the journey up from Dover.

There was kindness in a hospitality which opened to so strange a bird;
admitting the kindness, Shelton fell to analysing it. To himself, to
people of his class, the use of kindness was a luxury, not significant of
sacrifice, but productive of a pleasant feeling in the heart, such as
massage will setup in the legs. "Everybody's kind," he thought; "the
question is, What understanding is there, what real sympathy?" This
problem gave him food for thought.

The progress, which Mrs. Dennant not unfrequently remarked upon, in
Ferrand's conquest of his strange position, seemed to Shelton but a sign
that he was getting what he could out of his sudden visit to green
pastures; under the same circumstances, Shelton thought that he himself
would do the same. He felt that the young foreigner was making a
convenient bow to property, but he had more respect for the sarcastic
smile on the lips of Ferrand's heart.

It was not long before the inevitable change came in the spirit of the
situation; more and more was Shelton conscious of a quaint uneasiness in
the very breathing of the household.

"Curious fellow you've got hold of there, Shelton," Mr. Dennant said to
him during a game of croquet; "he 'll never do any good for himself, I'm
afraid."

"In one sense I'm afraid not," admitted Shelton.

"Do you know his story? I will bet you sixpence"--and Mr. Dennant
paused to swing his mallet with a proper accuracy "that he's been in
prison."

"Prison