They would expect him to conform to their type, to learn to speak their jargon, to think with their puny brains and to see with their short-sighted eyes.

At the "Criterion" he turned in and had a drink, and, bolder for the wine which he had swallowed at a gulp, he told himself that he would do nothing of the sort.

He would not alter a jot.

They must take him as he was, or leave him.

He suffered his thoughts to dwell for a moment upon his wealth, on the years which had gone to the winning of it, on a certain nameless day, the memory of which even now sent sometimes the blood running colder through his veins, on the weaker men who had gone under that he might prosper.