e of manner, which he kept for ceremony, or where he
wanted to please.

Happily, Mr. Redmain had one intellectual passion, which, poor thing as
it was, and in its motive, most of its aspects, and almost all its
tendencies, evil exceedingly, yet did something to delay that
corruption of his being which, at the same time, it powerfully aided to
complete: it was for the understanding and analysis of human evil--not
in the abstract, but alive and operative. For the appeasement of this
passion, he must render intelligible to himself, and that on his own
exclusive theory of human vileness, the aims and workings of every
fresh specimen of what he called human nature that seemed bad enough,
or was peculiar enough to interest him. In this region of darkness he
ranged like a discoverer--prowled rather, like an unclean beast of
prey--ever and always on the outlook for the false and foul;
acknowledging, it is true, that he was no better himself, but
arrogating on that ground a correctness of judgment beyond the reach of
such as, desiring to be better, were unwilling to believe in the utter
badness of anything human. Like a lover, he would watch for the
appearance of the vile motive, the self-interest, that "must be," _he
knew_, at the heart of this or that deed or proceeding of apparent
benevolence or generosity. Often, alas! the thing was provable; and,
where he did not find, he was quick to invent; and, where he failed in
finding or inventing, he not the less believed the bad motive was
there, and followed the slightest seeming trail of the cunning demon
only the more eagerly. What a smile was his when he heard, which truly
he was not in the way to hear often, the praise of some good deed, or
an ascription of high end to some endeavor of one of the vile race to
which he belonged! Do those who abuse their kind actually believe they
are of it? Do they hold themselves exceptions? Do they never reflect
that it must be because such is their own nature, whether their
accusation be true or false, that they know how to attribute such
motives to their fellows? Or is it that, actually and immediately
rejoicing in iniquity, they delight in believing it universal?

Quiet as a panther, Redmain was, I say, always in pursuit, if not of
something sensual for himself, then of something evil in another. He
would sit at his club, silent and watching, day after day, night after
night, waiting for the chance that should cast light on some idea of
d