ce. Shelton, whose bedroom was next to theirs, could hear
them in the mornings talking in exactly the tones they used at lunch,
and laughing the same laughs. Their life seemed to accord them perfect
satisfaction; they were supplied with their convictions by Society just
as, when at home, they were supplied with all the other necessaries of
life by some co-operative stores. Their fairly handsome faces, with the
fairly kind expressions, quickly and carefully regulated by a sense of
compromise, began to worry him so much that when in the same room he
would even read to avoid the need of looking at them. And yet they were
kind--that is, fairly kind--and clean and quiet in the house, except
when they laughed, which was often, and at things which made him want to
howl as a dog howls at music.

"Mr. Shelton," Ferrand said one day, "I 'm not an amateur of
marriage--never had the chance, as you may well suppose; but, in any
case, you have some people in the house who would make me mark
time before I went committing it. They seem the ideal young married
people--don't quarrel, have perfect health, agree with everybody, go to
church, have children--but I should like to hear what is beautiful in
their life," and he grimaced. "It seems to me so ugly that I can only
gasp. I would much rather they ill-treated each other, just to show they
had the corner of a soul between them. If that is marriage, 'Dieu m'en
garde!'"

But Shelton did not answer; he was thinking deeply.

The saying of John Noble's, "He's really a most interesting person,"
grew more and more upon his nerves; it seemed to describe the Dennant
attitude towards this stranger within their gates. They treated him
with a sort of wonder on the "don't touch" system, like an object in
an exhibition. 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
beca