He had listened, mechanically, when told in as many words that he had been read out of the Siowitha Club; he understood that he stood alone, discarded, disgraced, with a certain small coterie of wealthy men implacably hostile to him.

But it was not that which occupied him: he was face to face with the new element of which he had known nothing--the subtle, occult resistance to himself and his personality, all that he represented, embodied, stood for, hoped for.
And for the first time he realised that among the ruthless, no ruthlessness was permitted him; among the reckless, circumspection had been required of him; no arrogance, no insolence had been permitted him among the arrogant and insolent; for, when such as he turned threateningly upon one of those belonging to that elemental matrix of which he dared suppose himself an integral part, he found that he was mistaken.

Danger to one from such as he endangered their common caste--such as it was.

And, silently, subtly, all through that portion of the social fabric, he became slowly sensible of resistance--resistance everywhere, from every quarter.
Now, hunched up there in his chair, he began to understand.

If Ruthven had been a blackguard--it was not for him to punish him--no, not even threaten to expose him.