tion does not require
a moral breach. That was the faith he lived by, that by service to his
fellows and by sacrifice to whatever was worthy in the social compact,
he would find a growth of soul that would pay him, either here or
hereafter. So he lent money, and sold light, and traded in
merchandise, and did a man's work in politics--playing each game
according to the rules.

But whatever came to him, whatever of honour or of influence, or of
public respect, in his own heart there was the cloud--he knew that he
was a forger, and that once he had offered to throw everything he had
aside and take in return--But he was not candid enough even in his
own heart to finish the indictment. It made him flush with shame, and
perhaps that was why on his face there was often a curious
self-deprecating smile--not of modesty, not of charity, but the smile
of the man who is looking at a passing show and knows that it is not
real. As he went into his forties, and the flux of his life hardened,
he became a man of reserves--a kind, quiet, strong man, charitable to
a fault for the weaknesses of others, but a man who rarely reflected
his impulses, a listener in conversation, a dreamer amid the tumult of
business, whose success lay in his industry and caution, and who drew
men to him not by what he promised, but by the faith we chattering
daws have in the man who looks on and smiles while we prattle.

His lank bones began to take on flesh, and his face rounded at the
corners, and the eagerness of youth passed from him. He always looked
more of a man than John Barclay. For Barclay was a man of enthusiasms,
who occasionally liked to mouth a hard jaw-breaking "damn," and who
followed his instincts with womanly faith in them--so that he became
known as a man of impulse. But Hendricks' power was in repression, and
in Sycamore Ridge they used to say that the only reason why Bob
Hendricks grew a mustache was to chew it when people expected him to
talk. It wasn't much of a mustache--a little blond fuzz about as
heavy as his yellow eyebrows over his big inquiring blue eyes, and he
once told Dolan that he kept it for a danger signal. When he found
himself pulling at it, he knew he was nervous and should get out into
the open. They tell a story in the Ridge to the effect that Hendricks
started to run to a fire, and caught himself pulling at his mustache,
and turned around and went out to the power-house instead.

It was the only anecdote ever told o