ough he
was in no sense of the word an unpopular man, it was a rare thing for
any one to seek his company uninvited. The scholarly exclusiveness of
his Oxford days had not been altogether brushed off in this contact
with a larger and more spontaneous social life, and he figured in a
world which would gladly have known more of him, as a man of courteous
but severe reserve.

To-day he occupied his usual round table set in an alcove before a
tall window. For a recluse, he always found a singular pleasure in
watching the faces of the people in that broad living stream, little
units in the wheeling cycle of humanity of which he too felt himself
to be a part; but to-day his eyes were idle, and his sympathies
obstructed. Although a pronounced epicure in both food and drink, he
passed a new and delicate _entree_, and not only ordered the wrong
claret, but drank it without a grimace. The world of his sensations
had been rudely disturbed. For the moment his sense of proportions was
at fault, and before luncheon was over it received a further shock. A
handsomely appointed drag rattled past the club on its way into
Piccadilly. The woman who occupied the front seat turned to look at
the window as they passed, with some evident curiosity--and their eyes
met. Matravers set down the glass, which he had been in the act of
raising to his lips, untasted.

"Berenice and her Father Confessor!" he heard some one remark lightly
from the next table. "Pity some one can't teach Thorndyke how to
drive! He's a disgrace to the Four-in-hand!"

It was Berenice! The sight of her in such intimate association with a
man utterly distasteful to him was one before which he winced and
suffered. He was aware of a new and altogether undesired experience.
To rid himself of it with all possible speed, he finished his lunch
abruptly, and lighting a cigarette, started back to his rooms.

On the way he came face to face with Ellison, and the two men stood
together upon the pavement for a moment or two.

"I am not quite sure," Ellison remarked with a little grimace,
"whether I want to speak to you or not! What on earth has kindled the
destructive spirit in you to such an extent? Every one is talking of
your attack upon the New Theatre!"

"I was sent," Matravers answered, "with a free hand to write an honest
criticism--and I did it. Istein's work may have some merit, but it is
unclean work. It is not fit for the English stage."

"It is exceedingly unlikely,