The man whisks off his bed, and runs it up to the wall, whereupon he
may confront a handsome mirror. He compares the two faces.

"A change. A change, indeed!" he exclaims sadly. It is not alone in
the features. The new man is growing meager. He is an inconsequential
person. He is a character to be kept waiting in an ante-room while
strutting personages walk into the desired presence.

He pulls the bed down. He cannot lie on it now. He takes a chair and
greedily reads the apotheosis of David Lockwin.

As he reads he is seized with a surprising feeling. In all this
eulogium he sees the hand of Esther Lockwin. Without her aid this
great biography could not have been collated.

The sweat stands on his brow. He studies the type, to learn those
confessions that the publishers make, one to another, but not to the
world.

"It is paid for," he groans. He is wounded and unhappy.

"It is her cursed pride," he says. "I'm glad I'm out of it all."

He sits, week after week, hands deep in pockets, his legs stretched
out, one ankle over the other, his chin far down on his chest.

"Funny man in the east parlor!" says the chambermaid.

"Isn't he ugly!" says her fellow-chambermaid.