Lewis and Skelton were remarkably alike in their personal habits. Each of them made a careful toilet and strove to disguise the marks of emotion; they were both naturally reticent and had a delicate and sensitive pride. Lewis took old Service down to dinner with him. Being still low-spirited, he clung to the dog. Skelton noticed this, and it told volumes. Bulstrode had expected, tremblingly, all the afternoon, a summons to Skelton, and, not getting it, was in doubt about appearing at dinner. In truth, Skelton had by no means forgotten him, but he rather scorned to take Bulstrode too seriously. He had smiled rather grimly as he heard Bulstrode during the afternoon make his way down to the library. “Gone to reading to distract his mind,” he thought. Just as Lewis showed depression by holding on to Service, Bulstrode showed it by leaving his few old friends that he kept up in his own room, and going down into the grand new library after a mental sedative in the shape of a new book. The effect on this particular occasion had been such that he screwed up his courage to dine with Skelton. It seemed as if within the last twelve hours a likeness between Skelton and Lewis had come out incalculably strong. Each seemed to take his emotions in the same way: there were the same lines of tension about the mouth, the same look of indomitable courage in the eye, the same modulation in the voice. Bulstrode could not but be struck by it. Dinner passed off quite as usual. Skelton made a few remarks to Lewis, which Lewis answered respectfully and intelligently, as usual. Bulstrode occasionally growled out a sentence. Bob Skinny, elated by the approaching departure of the hated Bridges, flourished the decanters about freely, but for once Bulstrode was moderate. To judge by casual appearances, nothing had happened. After dinner, Lewis disappeared into the library, still lugging his dog after him. Skelton, whose heart yearned over him, would have liked to follow him, but he wisely refrained. The little fire had been renewed, and a pleasant warmth was diffused through the lofty hall. Sam Trotter, under Bob Skinny’s direction, brought candles, in tall silver candlesticks, and put them on the round mahogany table in the corner by the chimney-piece. Bulstrode was lumbering about the hall with his hands in his pockets. Skelton walked up to the fireplace and seated himself, with a cigar and a book, as if unconscious of Bulstrode’s presence. By degrees, Bulstrode’s walk grew stealthy; then he seated himself on the opposite side of the hearth and gazed absently into the fire.