“Just one week more, dear, and then we shall begin our new life together.” So ran a sentence of a letter from Ella, which Roderick was reading at breakfast. He sighed, rested his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands, his yellow beard protruding over his fingers, and gazed sadly over the elegantly set meal. Their new life! He was past forty, past the age of fresh ideals. Hitherto his had been the gratification of the lust of the eyes and the lust of the flesh. At times he deceived himself, an exuberant mood carrying its own persuasiveness. But there were hours, and they had been very frequent of late, when he saw himself as he was and hated the picture. A _poseur_, a sham, a creature of imperfect moral sense; gifted, it is true, with certain artistic faculties, wherewith he imposed upon a superficial world and so made his living; but insincere, devoid of real enthusiasms, cynically despising the gospel that he preached. For the first time he had touched a fervent and earnest soul, and the sense of his responsibility overwhelmed him. He rose and looked into the Empire mirror over the fireplace. He was middle-aged, puffed, wrinkled, worn out. There could be no new ideals,--only a reattiring of the old shams that had peopled his life. He threw himself down in an armchair and read Ella's letter through again. “My God,” said he, from his heart, as a million futile men have said, “if only I had ordered my life differently!” A trim maid-servant, one of the staff of the mansions in which his chambers were situated, entered with the announcement of a visitor. A moment afterwards Bevis Urquhart came in, languid, supercilious, with an ugly expression on his flabby face. Roderick rose, assumed at once his jaunty manner. “Sit down, my dear friend. You come like a ray of morning sunshine piercing through the fog.” Urquhart put his hat on the table and unbuttoned his gloves. “No, I won't sit down, thank you,” he drawled. “My brougham is at the door, and I'm in a hurry. I rather want that subscription back.” “Why, my dear fellow, you 're worse than a bankrupt bootmaker,” cried Roderick, pleasantly. “Perhaps I am, but I want the money,” replied the young man. “I'll send you a cheque this afternoon, 'pon my soul,” said Roderick. “You've told me that before, Usher. I want you to write the cheque now.” Roderick looked him between the eyes, and threw off his mask of cordiality. “Suppose I say I don't like your tone, and will see you damned before I do otherwise than suit my own convenience?” “Then I shall conclude you have bagged the money and can't repay.” “You are insulting,” said Roderick. “I believe I am stating facts. It was rather odd your meeting those bills that Willie Lathrop backed, just at that time, wasn't it?” Roderick again cursed Willie Lathrop under his breath. He turned aside and lit a cigarette, so as to gain time. Then he forced a laugh.