to reveal the absence of certain
vocal cords requisite to perfect harmony; and Siward smiled in his
listless, pleasant way, and turned off down his corridor, unaware
that the Sagamore pup was following close at his heels until he heard
Quarrier's even, colourless voice: "Ferrall, would you be good enough to
send Sagamore to your kennels?"

"Oh--he's your dog! I forgot," said Siward turning around.

Quarrier looked at him, pausing a moment.

"Yes," he said coldly, "he's my dog."

For a fraction of a second the two men's eyes encountered; then Siward
glanced at the dog, and turned on his heel with the slightest shrug.
And that is all there was to the incident--an anxious, perplexed puppy
lugged off by a servant, turning, jerking, twisting, resisting, looking
piteously back as his unwilling feet slid over the polished floor.

So Siward walked on alone through the long eastern wing to his room
overlooking the sea. He sat down on the edge of his bed, glancing at
the clothing laid out for him. He felt tired and disinclined for the
exertion of undressing. The shades were up; night quicksilvered the
window-panes so that they were like a dark mirror reflecting his
face. He inspected his darkened features curiously; the blurred and
sombre-tinted visage returned the stare.

"Not a man at all--the shadow of a man," he said aloud--"with no will,
no courage--always putting off the battle, always avoiding conclusions,
always skulking. What chance is there for a man like that?"

As one who raises a glass to drink wine and unexpectedly finds water,
he shrugged his shoulders disgustedly and got up. A bath followed; he
dressed leisurely, and was pacing the room, fussing with his collar,
when Ferrall knocked and entered, finding a seat on the bed.

"Stephen," he said bluntly, "I haven't seen you since that break of
yours at the club."

"Rotten, wasn't it?" commented Siward, tying his tie.

"Perfectly. Of course it doesn't make any difference to Grace or to me,
but I fancy you've already heard from it."

"Oh, yes. All I care about is how my mother took it."

"Of course; she was cut up I suppose?"

"Yes, you know how she would look at a thing of that sort; not that any
of the nine and seventy jarring sets would care, but those few thousands
invading the edges, butting in--half or three-quarters inside--are the
people who can't afford to overlook the victim of a fashionable club's
displeasure--those, and a woman like my mother,