“Of course, of course,” replied Whitney.  “There never was a man as timid as you are that wasn’t honest.  What a shallow world it is!  How often envy and cowardice pass for virtue!”

“I often say, sir,” replied Vagen, with intent to soothe and flatter, “there ain’t one man in ten million that wouldn’t have done the things you’ve done if they’d had the brains and the nerve.”

“And pray what are the ’things I’ve done’?” inquired Whitney.  But the flame of irritation was so feeble that it died down before his words were out.  “I’m going down to Saint X to see old Schulze,” he drawled on.  “Schulze knows more than any of ’em—­and ain’t afraid to say when he don’t know.”  A slow, somewhat sardonic smile.  “That’s why he’s unknown.  What can a wise man, who insists on showing that he’s wise, expect in a world of damn fools?” A long silence during which the uncomfortable Vagen had the consolation of seeing in that haggard, baggy, pasty-white face that his master’s thoughts were serving him much worse than mere discomfort.  Then Whitney spoke again:  “Yes, I’m going to Saint X. I’m going home to—­”

He did not finish; he could not speak the word of finality.  Vagen saw the look in his pale, blue-green eyes, saw that the great financier knew he would never again fling his terrible nets broadcast for vast hauls of golden fish, knew his days were numbered and that the number was small.  But, instead of this making him feel sympathetic and equal toward his master, thus unmasked as mere galvanized clay, it filled him with greater awe; for, to the Vagens, Death seems to wear a special costume and walk with grander step to summon the rich and the high.

“Yes, I’ll go—­this very afternoon,” said Whitney more loudly, turning his face toward the door through which came a faint feminine rustling—­the froufrou of the finest, softest silk and finest, softest linen.

He looked attentively at his wife as she crossed the threshold—­looked with eyes that saw mercilessly but indifferently, the eyes of those who are out of the game of life, out for good and all, and so care nothing about it.  He noted in her figure—­in its solidity, its settledness—­the signs of age the beauty doctors were still almost successful in keeping out of that masklike face which was their creation rather than nature’s; he noted the rough-looking red of that hair whose thinness was not altogether concealed despite the elaborate care with which it was arranged to give the impression of careless abundance.  He noted her hands; his eyes did not linger there, for the hands had the wrinkles and hollows and age marks which but for art would have been in the face, and they gave him a feeling—­he could not have defined it, but it made him shudder.  His eyes rested again upon her face, with an expression of pity that was slightly satirical.  This struggle of hers seemed so petty and silly to him now; how could any human being think any other fact important when the Great Fact hung from birth threateningly over all?