"There are no consistent characters in life," said Richmond, "and a consistent character in fiction is merely a strained form of art. In life the most arrant coward will sometimes fight; the bravest man at times lacks nerve; the generous man may sometimes show the spirit of the niggard. But your character in fiction is different. He must be always brave, or always generous, or always niggardly. He must be consistent, and consistency is not life." "But inconsistency is life, and you are, therefore, not dead," McGlenn replied. "If inconsistency were a jewel," he added, "you would be a cluster of brilliants. As it is, you are an intellectual fault-finder and a physical hypochondriac." "And you are an intellectual cartoon and a physical mistake." "I won't talk to you. Even the semblance of a gentleman commands my respect, but I can't respect you. I like truth, but"-- "Is that the reason you seek me?" "No, it is the reason I avoid you. Brutal prejudice never held a truth." "Not when it shook hands with you," Richmond replied. McGlenn got up, walked over to the piano, came back, looked at his watch, and addressing Richmond, asked: "Are you going home, John?" "Yes, John. Suppose we walk." "I'll go you; come on." They bade Henry good evening and together walked off affectionately. "What do you think of our new friend?" Richmond asked as they strolled along. "John, he has suffered. He is a great man." "I don't know how he may turn out," Richmond said, "but I rather like him. Of course he hasn't fitted himself to his position--that is, he doesn't as yet feel the force of old Witherspoon's money. His experience has gone far toward making a man of him, but his changed condition may after a while throw his past struggles into contempt and thereby corrode his manliness." "I don't think that he scraped up his principles from the Witherspoon side of the house," McGlenn declared. "If he had, we should at once have discovered in him the unmistakable trace of the hog. Oh, I don't think he will stay in the club very long. His tendency will be to drift away. All rich men are the enemies of democracy. If they pretend that they are not, they are hypocrites; if they believe they are not, it is because they haven't come to a correct understanding of themselves. The meanest difference that can exist between men is the difference that money makes. There is some compassion in an intellectual difference, and even in a difference of birth there is some little atonement to be expected, but a moneyed difference is stiff with unyielding brutality." In this opinion they struck a sort of agreement, but they soon fell apart, and they wrangled until they reached a place where their pathway split. They halted for a moment; they had been fierce in argument. Now they were calm. "Can't you come over to-night, John?" McGlenn asked. "No, I can't possibly come to-night, John. I've got a piece of work on hand and must get it off. I've neglected it too long already."