Sponley drove home immediately after the result of the election became known; but Harriet had expected him earlier, and when she heard the carriage drive up, she hurried into the hall and opened the door before he reached it. “How did you come out?” she asked. “We win,” he answered, “and comfortably, too.” He closed the door behind him and then kissed her, and while she was helping him out of his great-coat, he asked her how her day had gone. “Well enough,” she answered briefly, “but never mind about that. I want to know all about the stockholders’ meeting.” From a casual glance they seem to have changed but little since John Bagsbury’s wedding day. Sponley has put on another twenty pounds of flesh; he is so heavy now that he walks but little and sits down whenever it is possible. His hair is thinner and his lower eyelids sag somewhat, showing the red. As for Harriet, her once black hair is really very gray, and the lines are drawn deeper in her face; but her color is as fresh as ever, and her carriage is erect. Only a close observer would note that her eyes are too bright and are seldom still, and that the color in her cheeks flickers at a sudden noise or movement. When she is left alone and is sure that no one sees, her nervous energy seems to depart suddenly and leave her limp and exhausted; then her face grows haggard, and she stares at objects without seeing them. Twenty years ago Sponley would have observed; he would have surrounded her with doctors and nurses, or have taken her away to some quiet place where she might rest. He would do all that now, and more, only he does not see. For the years have changed him too. Melville Sponley and others like him are the soldiers of fortune of to-day. The world has always known these gentry in every grade in the social scale, from the great duke, who once led the armies of the queen of England and was never unwilling to sell out to any one who could afford to pay his price, to the poor devil who, for a half crown, would drive a knife into a man’s back; whatever their ability, whatever their weapons, daggers, or collateral securities, they are all alike in this: that not having, but getting, is their purpose; it is not the stake but the play that interests them. In all the active years of business, Sponley has never produced any wealth, he has never fostered an industrial enterprise or any commercial interest whatever; he has juggled with many and has wrecked not a few. He has fought now on this side of the market, now on that, and he has yet to meet with his first real defeat. That is partly due to luck, no doubt, but not so much as many men suppose. Like any other soldier of fortune, he wins by the difference between his nerve and quickness of judgment and that of other men. It is very easy to call such a man a rascal when you are reading about him in a book; but if you begin doing it among the men of your acquaintance, it will be awkward.