many virtues, often got on Stranleigh's nerves, and when Alexander Corbitt was in one of his more obstinate moods, he could depress Stranleigh away below zero.
Stranleigh entered the large smoking-room of the Camperdown Club with the eager joyfulness of a man who had made an unexpected discovery, and wanted to talk about it, but after a quarter of an hour's conversation with Corbitt, he set down his half-smoked cigar on the ash-tray, and, leaving his glass untasted, rose to his feet.
"All right, Corbitt!" he said. "Don't worry any more about it. Sorry I inflicted my stupidity upon you. Forgive me. Good-night," and the young man who, fifteen minutes before, had entered with light step, retired a walking picture of dejection.
A wry smile twisted Corbitt's lips, but he said nothing. Behind Corbitt, in an easy, leathern arm-chair, reading his evening paper, sat a venerable gentleman with ruddy face and snow-white hair and whiskers. He seemed to be a typical English country squire, who enjoyed a good meal and sound wine. As the conversation between Corbitt and Stranleigh went on, animated at first so far as the latter was concerned, the old man's paper sank to his knees. He rested his white head
