new that
their coldness had nothing to do with him, yet he resented it
practically just as much as though it had.

Then again, the case of Voles. What had made him fight Voles with such
vigour? It did not matter to him in the least whether Voles gave
Rochester away or not, yet he had fought Voles with all the feeling of
the man who is attacked, not of the man who is defending another man
from attack.

The attitude of Spicer and the other scamp had roused his ire on account
of its want of respect for him, the supposed Earl of Rochester.
Rochester's folly had inspired that want of respect, why should he,
Jones, bother about it? He did. It hit him just as much as though it
were levelled against himself. He had found, as yet to a limited degree,
but still he had found that anything that would hurt Rochester would
hurt him, that his sensibility was just as acute under his new guise,
and, wonder of wonders, his dignity as a Lord just as sensitive as his
dignity as a man.

If you had told Jones in Philadelphia that a day would come when he
would be angry if a servant did not address him as "my Lord," he would
have thought you mad. Yet that day had come, or was coming, and that
change in him was not in the least the result of snobbishness, it was
the result of the knowledge of what was due to Rochester, Arthur
Coningsby Delamere, 21st Earl of, from whom he could not disentangle
himself whilst acting his part.

He was awakened by Mr. Church pulling up his window blinds.

He had been dreaming of the boarding-house in Philadelphia where he used
to live, of Miss Wybrow, the proprietress, and the other guests, Miss
Sparrow, Mr. Moese--born Moses--Mr. Hoffman, the part proprietor of
Sharpes' Drug Store, Mrs. Bertine, and the rest.

He watched whilst Mr. Church passed to the door, received the morning
tea tray from the servant outside, and, placing it by the bed, withdrew.
This was the only menial service which Mr. Church ever seemed to
perform, with the exception of the stately carrying in of papers and
letters at breakfast time.

Jones drank his tea. Then he got up, went to the window, looked out at
the sunlit Green Park, and then rang his bell. He was not depressed nor
nervous this morning. He felt extraordinarily fit. The powerful good
spirits natural to him, a heritage better than a fortune, were his
again. Life seemed wonderfully well worth living, and the game before
him the only game worth playing.

Then the Mechani