of the same feeling that made him (regardless of his
wife's uplifted eyebrows) insist on placing the guest of the evening
between Maddox and himself. It was later on, about the time when the
wine went round, that Rickman became aware of a change, of a subtle
undefined hostility in the air. He wondered whether the Rankins were
annoyed with him because of his inability to take a brilliant part in
the conversation or to finish any one thing that he took upon his
plate. But for the life of him he couldn't help it. He was too tired
to talk, and he had reached that stage of hunger when the desire to
eat no longer brought with it the power of eating, when the
masterpieces of Rankin's _chef_ excited only terror and repugnance. He
ate sparingly as starving men must eat, and he drank more sparingly
than he ate; for he feared the probable effect of unwonted stimulants.
So that his glass appeared ever to be full.

The hostility was more Mrs. Herbert Rankin's attitude than that of her
husband, but he noticed a melancholy change in Rankin. His geniality
had vanished, or lingered only in the curl of his moustache. He was
less amusing than of old. His conversation was no longer that of the
light-hearted junior journalist flinging himself recklessly into the
tide of talk; but whatever topic was started he turned it to himself.
He was exceedingly indignant on the subject of the war, which he
regarded more as a personal grievance than as a national calamity. No
doubt it was his eminence that constituted him the centre of so vast a
range.

"The worst of it is," said he, "whichever side beats it's destruction
to royalties. I lost a clean thousand on Spion Kop and I can tell you
I didn't recover much on Mafeking, though I worked Tommy Atkins for
all he was worth. This year my sales have dropped from fifty to thirty
thousand. I can't stand many more of these reverses."

He paused, dubious, between two _entrees_.

"If it's had that effect on _me_," said the great man, "Heaven only
knows what it's done to other people. How about you, Rickman?"

"Oh, I'm all right, thanks." The war had ruined him, but his ruin was
not the point of view from which he had yet seriously regarded it. He
was frankly disgusted with his old friend's tone.

"If it goes on much longer, I shall be obliged," said Rankin
solemnly, "to go out to the seat of war."

Rickman felt a momentary glow. He was exhilarated by the idea of
Rankin at the seat of war. He said he