base from which it started, Tom Delamere belonged somewhere on
the downward slant, with large possibilities of further decline. Old
Mr. Delamere, who might be taken as the apex of an ideal aristocratic
development, had been distinguished, during his active life, as Ellis
had learned, for courage and strength of will, courtliness of bearing,
deference to his superiors, of whom there had been few, courtesy to his
equals, kindness and consideration for those less highly favored, and
above all, a scrupulous sense of honor; his grandson Tom was merely the
shadow without the substance, the empty husk without the grain. Of grace
he had plenty. In manners he could be perfect, when he so chose. Courage
and strength he had none. Ellis had seen this fellow, who boasted of his
descent from a line of cavaliers, turn pale with fright and spring from
a buggy to which was harnessed a fractious horse, which a negro
stable-boy drove fearlessly. A valiant carpet-knight, skilled in all
parlor exercises, great at whist or euchre, a dream of a dancer,
unexcelled in Cakewalk or "coon" impersonations, for which he was in
large social demand, Ellis had seen him kick an inoffensive negro out of
his path and treat a poor-white man with scant courtesy. He suspected
Delamere of cheating at cards, and knew that others entertained the same
suspicion. For while regular in his own habits,--his poverty would not
have permitted him any considerable extravagance,--Ellis's position as a
newspaper man kept him in touch with what was going on about town. He
was a member, proposed by Carteret, of the Clarendon Club, where cards
were indulged in within reasonable limits, and a certain set were known
to bet dollars in terms of dimes.

Delamere was careless, too, about money matters. He had a habit of
borrowing, right and left, small sums which might be conveniently
forgotten by the borrower, and for which the lender would dislike to
ask. Ellis had a strain of thrift, derived from a Scotch ancestry, and a
tenacious memory for financial details. Indeed, he had never had so much
money that he could lose track of it. He never saw Delamere without
being distinctly conscious that Delamere owed him four dollars, which he
had lent at a time when he could ill afford to spare it. It was a
prerogative of aristocracy, Ellis reflected, to live upon others, and
the last privilege which aristocracy in decay would willingly
relinquish. Neither did the aristocratic memory seem