"
"It's obvious that we belong to the same--social sphere," began Mr.
Jones with languid irony. Inwardly he was as watchful as he could be.
"Something has driven you out--the originality of your ideas, perhaps.
Or your tastes."
Mr Jones indulged in one of his ghastly smiles. In repose his features
had a curious character of evil, exhausted austerity; but when he
smiled, the whole mask took on an unpleasantly infantile expression. A
recrudescence of the rolling thunder invaded the room loudly, and passed
into silence.
"You are not taking this very well," observed Mr. Jones. This was
what he said, but as a matter of fact he thought that the business
was shaping quite satisfactorily. The man, he said to himself, had no
stomach for a fight. Aloud he continued: "Come! You can't expect to have
it always your own way. You are a man of the world."
"And you?" Heyst interrupted him unexpectedly. "How do you define
yourself?"
"I, my dear sir? In one way I am--yes, I am the world itself, come to
pay you a visit. In another sense I am an outcast--almost an outlaw.
If you prefer a less materialistic view, I am a sort of fate--the
retribution that waits its time."
"I wish to goodness you were the commonest sort of ruffian!" said Heyst,
raising his equable gaze to Mr. Jones. "One would be able to talk to you
straight then, and hope for some humanity.
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