“And that's why I'm going to do nothing of the kind,” said John, rising and looking down upon his friend with blood-shot eyes. “I'm pretty miserable, I own. Lots of men are, and they have to keep their mouths shut, because they have n't any one before whom they 're not ashamed to let off steam. I've got you. I've had you all my man's life. I've told you everything. Somehow I've not been ashamed to tell you things I would n't dream of breathing to any other man living. There 's a kind of woman, I believe, whom I might have talked to as I do to you. I've not met her, so I've got into the habit of coming to you with whatever worries me; and you 've never failed me. And I've come to you now. But there are limits beyond which even a friend like you has no right to go. You've no right to tell me I'm going out of my mind and to warn me against behaving like the inmate of a lunatic asylum. You've no right. I resent it. I'm not going to stand it.” Herold's reply was checked by the creaking of the door and the entrance of the bent figure of an old member, a county court judge who, on his way to a writing-table by the window, nodded courteously to the two younger men and remarked that it was a fine day. “I suppose most people would call it so,” said John. “Don't you?” “I hate it,” cried John. “I wish it would rain. I wish it would rain like the devil. I would give my ears for a pea-soup fog. Sunshine is too blightingly ironical in this country.” The old judge lifted his eyebrows. “The metaphysics of meteorology are beyond me,” he said, with a smile and a bow, and sat down to write. John lingered for a second or two by the side of his friend, tracing the pattern of the Turkey carpet with the toe of his boot; then he swung round abruptly. “Excuse me,” said he. “I 've got to look at Baxter's imbecile article in 'The Contemporary.' ” He went to the table where the current magazines and reviews were tidily displayed, and Herold, sitting in an arm-chair some distance away, with his back to the table, pondered over the discussion that had just taken place. But for the rumble and clatter of London that came through the open windows, the ceaseless choric ode to all the drama of the vast city, there was silence in the spacious room, broken only by the scratching of the old judge's quill pen. Herold resumed his aimless skimming of the evening newspaper. What further appeal could he make to John in his contradictory and violent mood? At last the old judge, having scribbled his note, got up and left the room. Herold turned and found himself alone. John had gone without drum or trumpet. In the lounge down-stairs there was no John, and in the hall the porter told him that Mr. Risca had left the club.