have shrunk from this petty gall upon the wrung withers; but, as I have
said, there is a terrible disconnection between the author and the man.
The first is always at our mercy--of the last we know nothing. At such
an hour Maltravers could feel none of the contempt that proud--none of
the wrath that vain, minds feel at these stings. He could feel nothing
but an undefined abhorrence of the world, and of the aims and objects he
had pursued so long. Yet that even he did not then feel. He was in a
dream; but as men remember dreams, so when he awoke did he loathe his
own former aspirations, and sicken at their base rewards. It was the
first time since his first year of inexperienced authorship that abuse
had had the power even to vex him for a moment. But here, when the cup
was already full, was the drop that overflowed. The great column of his
past world was gone, and all else seemed crumbling away.

At length Colonel Danvers entered. Maltravers drew him aside, and they
left the club.

"Danvers," said the latter, "the time in which I told you I should need
your services is near at hand; let me see you, if possible, to-night."

"Certainly--I shall be, at the House till eleven. After that hour you
will find me at home."

"I thank you."

"Cannot this matter be arranged amicably?"

"No, it is a quarrel of life and death."

"Yet the world is really growing too enlightened for these old mimicries