Beauchamp's whole consciousness was poisoned by the memory of that day.

Incapable of regarding any one except in comparative relation to himself, the effort of his life had been to maintain that feeling of superiority with which he started every new acquaintance; for occasionally a flash of foreign individuality would break through the husk of satisfaction in which he had inclosed himself, compelling him to feel that another man might have claims.

And hitherto he had been very successful in patching up and keeping entire his eggshell of conceit.

But that affair with Alec was a very bad business.

Had Beauchamp been a coward, he would have suffered less from it.