“Pose!” he inwardly exclaimed.  “What a lie!  The man’s an ass!”

And he resented the following remark which concluded a ‘special memoir’ extremely laudatory in matter and manner, by an expert whose books he had always respected:  “However, contemporary judgments are in the large majority of cases notoriously wrong, and it behooves us to remember this in choosing a niche for our idol.  Time alone can settle the ultimate position of Priam Farll.”

Useless for his modesty to whisper to him that contemporary judgments were notoriously wrong.  He did not like it.  It disturbed him.  There were exceptions to every rule.  And if the connoisseur meant anything at all, he was simply stultifying the rest of the article.  Time be d——­d!

He had come nearly to the last line of the last obituary before he was finally ruffled.  Most of the sheets, in excusing the paucity of biographical detail, had remarked that Priam Farll was utterly unknown to London society, of a retiring disposition, hating publicity, a recluse, etc.  The word “recluse” grated on his sensitiveness a little; but when the least important of the evening papers roundly asserted it to be notorious that he was of extremely eccentric habits, he grew secretly furious.  Neither his modesty nor his philosophy was influential enough to restore him to complete calm.

Eccentric!  He!  What next?  Eccentric, indeed!

Now, what conceivable justification------?

The Ruling Classes

Between a quarter-past and half-past eleven he was seated alone at a small table in the restaurant of the Grand Babylon.  He had had no news of Mrs. Challice; she had not instantly telegraphed to Selwood Terrace, as he had wildly hoped.  But in the boxes of Henry Leek, safely retrieved by the messenger from South Kensington Station, he had discovered one of his old dress-suits, not too old, and this dress-suit he had donned.  The desire to move about unknown in the well-clad world, the world of the frequenters of costly hotels, the world to which he was accustomed, had overtaken him.  Moreover, he felt hungry.  Hence he had descended to the famous restaurant, whose wide windows were flung open to the illuminated majesty of the Thames Embankment.  The pale cream room was nearly full of expensive women, and expending men, and silver-chained waiters whose skilled, noiseless, inhuman attentions were remunerated at the rate of about four-pence a minute.  Music, the midnight food of love, floated scarce heard through the tinted atmosphere.  It was the best imitation of Roman luxury that London could offer, and after Selwood Terrace and the rackety palace of no gratuities, Priam Farll enjoyed it as one enjoys home after strange climes.

Next to his table was an empty table, set for two, to which were presently conducted, with due state, a young man, and a magnificent woman whose youth was slipping off her polished shoulders like a cloak.  Priam Farll then overheard the following conversation:—­