and confusion, he could observe and catch the influence
of the activity which is in itself a powerful stimulant, without
experiencing its unpleasantness. Essentially, the man was an aesthete. If
he went to a race or a football game he wished to view it at a distance.
To be close by, to mingle in the dust of action, to smell the sweat of
conflict, to listen to the low-voiced imprecations of the defeated,
detracted from his pleasure. He could not prevent these
features--therefore he avoided them.

This particular evening he was doing nothing, which was very unusual for
him. The necessity for society, or for activity, physical or mental, had
long ago become as much a part of his nature as the desire for food.
Dilettante musician as well as artist, when alone at this time of the
evening he was generally at the upright piano in the corner. Even Alec
noticed the unusual lack of occupation on this occasion, and exposed the
key-board suggestively; but, observing the action, Sidwell only smiled.

"Think I ought to, Alec?" he queried.

The negro rolled his eyes. Despite his long service, he had never quite
lost his awe of the man he attended.

"Sho, yo always do that, or something, sah," he said.

Sidwell smiled again; but it was not a pleasant smile. So this was the
way of it! Even his servant had observed his habitual restlessness, and
had doubtless commented upon it to his companions in the way servants
have of passing judgment upon their employers. And if Alec had noticed
this, then how much more probable it was that others of Sidwell's
numerous acquaintances had noticed it also! He winced at the thought.
That this was his skeleton, and that he had endeavored to keep it
hidden, Sidwell did not attempt to deny to himself. One of the reasons
he had _not_ given to his family for establishing these down-town
quarters was this very one. Time and again, when he had felt the mood of
protest strong upon him, he had come here and locked the doors to fight
it out alone. But after all, it had been useless. The fact had been
obvious, despite the trick; mayhap even more so on account of it. Like
the Wandering Jew he was doomed, followed by a relentless curse.

He shook himself, and walking over to the sideboard poured out a glass
of Cognac and drank it as though it were wine. Sidwell did not often
drink spirits. Experience had taught him that to begin usually meant to
end with regret the following day; but to-night, with his present