degrees, he turned discreetly round. With the tail of his eye he could
see "the man himself" standing at the far end of the room. He saw too
that his own effort, though supreme, had been unavailing. It had
deceived no one, least of all S.K.R. "The man himself" stood on the
very hearth of the club, with his back to the fireplace. It was the
attitude of mastery, a mastery the more superb because unconscious.
His eyes too, were the eyes of a master, twinkling a little as to
their light, but steady as to their direction, being fixed on Maddox.
He was smiling.

There was nothing malignant, or bitter, or sardonic about that smile.
No devilry of delight at their confusion. No base abandonment of the
whole countenance to mirth, but a curious one-sided smile, implying
delicacies, reservations. A slow smile, reminiscent, ruminant,
appreciative; it expressed (if so subtle and refined a thing could be
said to express anything) a certain exquisite enjoyment of the phrases
in which they had defined him.

And seeing it, Maddox said to himself, "He isn't a gentleman. He's
something more."

In that moment the Celtic soul of Maddox had recognized its master,
and had sworn to him unhesitating allegiance.




CHAPTER VI