Reardon stood there in his middle-aged ease, the picture of a man who has nothing to do more hazardous than to take care of himself. His hands were exceedingly well-kept. His cravat, of a dull blue, was suited to his fresh-coloured face, and, though this is too far a quest for the casual eye, his socks also were blue, an admirable match. Jeff was not accustomed, certainly in these later years, to noting clothes; but he did feel actually unkempt before this mirror of the time. Yet why? For in the old days also Reardon had been rather vain of outward conformity. He had striven then to make up by every last nicety of dress and manner for the something his origin had lacked. It was not indeed the perfection of his dress that disconcerted; it was the kind of man Reardon had grown to be: for of him the clothes did, in their degree, testify. Jeffrey was conscious that every muscle in Reardon's body had its just measure of attention. Reardon had organised the care of that being who was himself. He had provided richly for his future, wiped out his past where it threatened to gall him, and was giving due consideration to his present. He meant supremely to be safe, and to that end he had entrenched himself on every side. Jeff felt a very disorganised, haphazard sort of being indeed before so complete a creature. And Reardon, so far from breaking into the old intimacy that Jeff had seen still living behind them in a sunny calm, only waiting for the gate to be opened on it again, stood there distinctly embarrassed and nothing more. "Jeff!" said he. "How are you?" That was not enough. He found it lacking, and added, with a deepened shade of warmth, "How are you, old man?" Now he put out his hand, but it had been so long in coming that Jeff gave no sign of seeing it. "I'll walk along with you," he said. "No, no." Reardon was calling upon reserves of decency and good feeling. "You'll do nothing of the sort. Come in." "No," said Jeff. "I was walking. I'll go along with you." Now Reardon came down the steps and put an insistent hand on his shoulder. "Jeff," said he, "come on in. You surprised me. That's the truth. I wasn't prepared. I hadn't looked for you." Jeff went up the steps; it seemed, indeed, emotional to do less. But at the door he halted and his eyes sought the chairs at hand. "Can't we," said he, "sit down here?" Reardon, with a courteous acquiescence, went past one of the chairs, leaving it for him, and dropped into another. Jeff took his, and found nothing to say. One of them had got to make a civil effort. Jeff, certain he had no business there, took his hand at it. "This was the old Pelham house?" Reardon assented, in evident relief, at so remote a topic. "I bought it six years ago. Had it put in perfect repair. The plumbing cost me--well! you know what old houses are." Jeff turned upon him. "Jim," said he quietly, "what's the matter?" "Nothing's the matter," said Reardon, blustering. "My dear boy! I'm no end glad to see you."