separation, and found each other intolerable; a decade later their
meeting led to hearty friendship. Rolfe had become independent, and was
tasting his freedom in a twelvemonth's travel. The men came face to face
one day on the deck of a steamer at Port Said. Physically, Rolfe had
changed so much that the other had a difficulty in recognising him;
morally, the change was not less marked, as Carnaby very soon became
aware. At thirty-seven this process of development was by no means
arrested, but its slow and subtle working escaped observation unless it
were that of Harvey Rolfe himself.

His guest this evening, in a quiet corner of the dining-room where he
generally sat, was a man, ten years his junior, named Morphew: slim,
narrow-shouldered, with sandy hair, and pale, delicate features of more
sensibility than intelligence; restless, vivacious, talking incessantly
in a low, rapid voice, with frequent nervous laughs which threw back his
drooping head. A difference of costume -- Rolfe wore morning dress,
Morphew the suit of ceremony -- accentuated the younger man's advantage
in natural and acquired graces; otherwise, they presented the contrast
of character and insignificance. Rolfe had a shaven chin, a weathered
complexion, thick brown hair; the penumbra of middle-age had touched his
countenance, softening here and there a line which told of temperament
in excess. At this moment his manner inclined to a bluff jocularity, due
in some measure to the bottle of wine before him, as also was the tinge
of colour upon his cheek; he spoke briefly, but listened with smiling
interest to his guest's continuous talk. This ran on the subject of the
money-market, with which the young man boasted some practical
acquaintance.

'You don't speculate at all?' Morphew asked.