But Goddard glowered at him. At that moment Gleam seemed to belong to the other side of the great gulf, and he hated him with the old class-hatred. He looked so spick and span with his evening dress, and gold eye-glass, and meticulously trimmed head. His manner was so easy, giving the impression of freedom from sordid cares. He had no foul drunken wife dragging him down. He could meet Lady Phayre on a level. He could offer her marriage, and she could but take the offer as a compliment. A sense of personal degradation filled Goddard’s soul, and he hated himself for hating Gleam. In a moment, however, he came to his senses, but not before Gleam had rallied him on his confusion. “Caught you napping, eh? Well--will you dine?” “No,” said Goddard, rising from his chair. “Not to-night. I ought to have got out of this half-an-hour ago.” He made a pretence of stretching himself as if he had been asleep. Gleam looked at him with his quick glance. “You have been overworking yourself. Take care. You great strong men break with a crash. Go away and have a rest.” “Like Lady Phayre,” said Goddard, in the bitterness of his heart. “Quite so. That confounded strike of yours did for her. What the dickens we’re to do without her I don’t know.” “Life will go on just the same, I suppose. No one is indispensable.” He laughed mirthlessly. A faint flush rose in Gleam’s dry cheeks. “You’re talking treason, Goddard. You certainly do want a rest.” “One wants a devil of a lot of things one can’t get,” said Goddard. “I want my dinner, and I’m going to get it,” replied Gleam good-humouredly. “Goodbye.” He went out of the library, took his place in the lift. His eyes twinkled, and he smoothed his moustache abstractedly. Then a little exclamation broke from him. “I wonder!” said he. “Did you speak, sir?” said the lift-porter. “Eh?” replied Gleam. “Yes; I wonder--I wonder why I have come down to the basement when I wanted the dining-room floor.”