It was with sharp anguish that these queries flashed through Mildred’s mind, and, with her own perceptions sharpened and quickened, she saw that her father had indeed changed very greatly; he had grown much thinner; his complexion had an unnatural, livid aspect; his old serene, frank look was absent, and a noticeable contraction in the pupils of his eyes gave an odd, sinister aspect to his expression.

There were other changes that were even more painful to witness.  In former days he had been the embodiment of genial Southern hospitality; but now, although he made a visible effort for self-control, his whole body seemed one diseased irritable nerve.

Roger almost instantly overcame his pained surprise, yet not so quickly but that it was observed by all, and even by him who had been the cause.  “I am very sorry to learn you are not in good health,” he was indiscreet enough to say as he offered his hand in greeting.

“From whom have you learned this?” demanded Mr. Jocelyn, looking angrily and suspiciously around.  “I assure you that you are mistaken.  I never was in better health, and I am not pleased that any one should gossip about me.”

They sat down under a miserable constraint—­Belle flushed and indignant, Mildred no longer disguising her sadness, and poor Mrs. Jocelyn with moist eyes making a pitiful attempt to restore serenity so that Belle’s happy day might not become clouded.  Roger tried to break the evil spell by giving his impressions of the Park to Mrs. Jocelyn, but was interrupted by her husband, who had been watching the young man with a perplexed, suspicious look, vainly trying to recall the name of one whose face was familiar enough, remarking at last very satirically, “Has it ceased to be the style to introduce people, especially at one’s own table?  I might appreciate this gentleman’s conversation better if I knew his name.”

They all looked at each other in sudden dismay, for they could not know that opium impairs memory as well as health and manhood.  “Martin,” cried his wife, in a tone of sharp distress, “you are ill, indeed.  There is no use in trying to disguise the truth any longer.  What! don’t you remember Roger Atwood, the son of the kind friends with whom we spent the summer?” and in spite of all effort tears blinded her eyes.

The wretched man’s instinct of self-preservation was aroused.  He saw from the looks of all about him that he was betraying himself—­that he was wholly off his balance.  While vividly and painfully aware of his danger, his enfeebled will and opium-clouded mind were impotent to steady and sustain him or to direct his course.  He had much of the terror and all the sense of helplessness of a man who finds himself in deep water and cannot swim.  He trembled, the perspiration started out on his brow, and his one impulse now was to be alone with his terrible master, that had become the sole source of his semblance of strength as well as of his real and fatal weakness.  “I—­I fear I am ill,” he faltered.  “I’ll go out and get a little air,” and he was about to leave the room almost precipitately.