Nevertheless, grave searchings of heart awaited him now. His sane moments told him--alas! those in which he could look dispassionately upon his predicament seemed to be few--that a wide gulf was fixed between these people and himself. In all essentials they were as wide asunder as the poles. Their place in the scheme of things was fixed, they moved in a definite orbit, while at the best of it he was a mere adventurer, a waif of the streets whom Klondyke had first taught to read and write. The fact itself was nothing to be ashamed of, he knew that. It was no fault of his that life had never given him a chance. But a new and growing sensitiveness had come upon him, which somehow made that knowledge hard to bear. He did not wish to convey an impression of being other than he was, but he knew it would be difficult to meet Klondyke now. This, however, was weakness, and he determined to lay it aside. Such feelings were unworthy of Klondyke and of himself. The price to be paid might be heavy--he somehow knew that far more was at stake than he dared think--but let the cost be what it might, he must not be afraid to meet his friend. All too soon, the evening came when he was due at Queen Street. He arrayed himself with a care almost cynical in his new and well cut clothes, brushed his hair very thoroughly, and took great pains over the set of his tie. Then giving himself doggedly to a task from which there was no escape, he managed to arrive in Queen Street on the stroke of the hour of eight. An atmosphere of veiled amusement seemed to envelop him as soon as he entered the drawing-room, but the hero was not there. The Sailor was informed by Silvia in a gay aside that Klondyke always made a practice of being absolutely last in any boiled-shirted assembly. The Prince, however, was on the hearthrug, wearing his usual air of calm proprietorship, and with an expression of countenance even more quizzical than usual. Edward Ambrose was also there, looking a trifle perplexed and a little anxious. Lady Pridmore in white satin and really beautiful black lace had that air of regal composure she was never without, but Mary and Silvia were consumed with frank amusement. "Klondyke is still struggling," said Silvia, "but he won't be long." It was easy to see that the hero and his boiled shirt were a standing jest in the family circle. He was really a figure of legend. Incredible stories were told of him, all of which had the merit of being based upon truth. He would have been a source of pure joy for the things he had done could he ever have been forgiven for the things he hadn't done. Dinner had been announced a full five minutes, and a frown was slowly submerging the Prince, when Klondyke sauntered in, his hands deep in his pockets, looking extremely brown and _soigné_ and altogether handsome. By some miracle he was even better turned out than his younger brother. "Here he is!" cried Silvia.