“Then, sir, I thank you—­and—­er—­that’s all.”

“Very glad if—­” Mr. Barradine made the same gesture that Dale had seen a few hours ago:  a wave of the right hand.  But to Dale it seemed that it was different now, that it indicated languor and haughtiness; indeed, it seemed that the whole man was different.  Could this be the advocate who had spoken up so freely for a friend in trouble?  All the majesty and the force, as well as the generous friendliness, had disappeared.  The face, the voice, the whole bearing belonged to another man.  The tired eyes had not a spark of fire in them; those puffy bags of loose flesh, that hung between the outer corners of the cheekbones and the thin birdlike nose, were so ugly as to be disfiguring; the mouth, instead of looking soft and kind, although proud, now appeared to close in the unbending lines of a very obdurate self-esteem.  This new aspect of his patron made Dale stammer uncomfortably; and he felt something akin to humiliation in lieu of the fine glow of gratitude with which he had come hurrying from the Euston Road.

“Then my duty—­and my thanks—­and I’ll say good afternoon, sir.”

He had pulled himself together and spoken these last words ringingly, and now grasping Mr. Barradine’s hand he gave it a mercilessly severe squeeze.

“Damnation!” Under the horny grip, Mr. Barradine emitted a squeal of pain.  “Confound it—­my good fellow—­why the deuce can’t you be careful what you’re doing?”

Mr. Barradine, very angry, was ruefully examining his hand; and Dale, apologizing profusely, stared at it too.  It was limp in texture, yellowish white of color, with bluish swollen veins, some darkish brown patches here and there, and slight glistening protuberances at the knuckle joints-an old man’s hand, so feeble that it could not bear the least pressure, and yet decorated with a young man’s fopperies.  Dale noticed the three rings on the little finger-one of gold, one of silver, one of black metal, each with tiny colored gems in it—­and while heartily ashamed of his rustic violence, he felt a secret contempt for its victim.

“That’s all right.”  Mr. Barradine, although still wincing, had recovered composure, and what he said now appeared to be an implied excuse for the sharpness of his protest.  “When you get to my time of life, you’ll perhaps know what gout means.”

“Sorry you should be afflicted that way, sir,” said Dale contritely.

Mr. Barradine had rung a bell, and a servant was standing at the door.

“Good day to you, Mr. Dale.  You’re going home, I suppose?”

“Not for a fortnight, sir.”

“Ah!  I hope to return to the Abbey on Thursday morning;” and quite obviously Mr. Barradine now intended to gratify Dale by a few polite sentences of small talk, and thus show him that his offense had been pardoned.  “Yes, I soon begin to pine for my garden.  Friday, at latest, sees me home again.  I always call the Abbey home.  No place like home, Dale.”