CHAPTER XIV.

So Tracy went home to supper.  The odors in that supper room seemed more strenuous and more horrible than ever before, and he was happy in the thought that he was so soon to be free from them again.  When the supper was over he hardly knew whether he had eaten any of it or not, and he certainly hadn’t heard any of the conversation.  His heart had been dancing all the time, his thoughts had been faraway from these things, and in the visions of his mind the sumptuous appointments of his father’s castle had risen before him without rebuke.  Even the plushed flunkey, that walking symbol of a sham inequality, had not been unpleasant to his dreaming view.  After the meal Barrow said,

“Come with me.  I’ll give you a jolly evening.”

“Very good.  Where are you going?”

“To my club.”

“What club is that?”

“Mechanics’ Debating Club.”

Tracy shuddered, slightly.  He didn’t say anything about having visited that place himself.  Somehow he didn’t quite relish the memory of that time.  The sentiments which had made his former visit there so enjoyable, and filled him with such enthusiasm, had undergone a gradual change, and they had rotted away to such a degree that he couldn’t contemplate another visit there with anything strongly resembling delight.  In fact he was a little ashamed to go; he didn’t want to go there and find out by the rude impact of the thought of those people upon his reorganized condition of mind, how sharp the change had been.  He would have preferred to stay away.  He expected that now he should hear nothing except sentiments which would be a reproach to him in his changed mental attitude, and he rather wished he might be excused.  And yet he didn’t quite want to say that, he didn’t want to show how he did feel, or show any disinclination to go, and so he forced himself to go along with Barrow, privately purposing to take an early opportunity to get away.

After the essayist of the evening had read his paper, the chairman announced that the debate would now be upon the subject of the previous meeting, “The American Press.”  It saddened the backsliding disciple to hear this announcement.  It brought up too many reminiscences.  He wished he had happened upon some other subject.  But the debate began, and he sat still and listened.

In the course of the discussion one of the speakers—­a blacksmith named Tompkins—­arraigned all monarchs and all lords in the earth for their cold selfishness in retaining their unearned dignities.  He said that no monarch and no son of a monarch, no lord and no son of a lord ought to be able to look his fellow man in the face without shame.  Shame for consenting to keep his unearned titles, property, and privileges—­at the expense of other people; shame for consenting to remain, on any terms, in dishonourable possession of these things, which