their hand-clasps still lingered in his. That was something, very much,
John Steele told himself; but, oddly, with no perceptible thrill of
satisfaction. Had he become dead to approval? What did he want? Or what
had been wanting? Sir Charles had been affable, gracious; eminently just
in his manner. But the old man's sensibilities had been cruelly shocked;
Ronsdale, the son of his old friend, a miserable coward who, if the
truth were known, would be asked to resign from every club he belonged
to! And he, Sir Charles, had desired a closer bond between him and one
he loved well, his own niece!

Perhaps John Steele divined why the hearty old man's face had grown so
grave. Sir Charles might well experience shame for this retrogression of
one of his own class, the broken obligations of nobility; the traditions
shattered. But he thanked John Steele in an old-fashioned, courtly way
for what he had once done for his niece whose life he had saved. Perhaps
it was the reaction in himself; perhaps John Steele merely fancied a
distance in the other's very full and punctilious expression of personal
indebtedness; his courteous reiteration that he should feel honored by
his presence at any and all times at his house!

For a few moments now John Steele remained motionless, listening to
their departing footsteps; then turned and gazed around him.

Never had his rooms appeared more cheerless, more barren, more empty.
No, not empty; they were filled with memories. Hardly pleasant ones;
recollections of struggles, contentions that had led him to--what? His
chambers seemed very still; the little street very silent. Time had been
when he had not felt its solitude; now he experienced only a sense of
irksomeness, isolation. The man squared his shoulders and looked out
again from the window toward that small bit of the river he could just