As for the others, those who had supported him, they were cast in a less heroic mould.  Even Francis Ferguson.  As between the devil and the deep sea, he was compelled, with as good a grace as possible, to choose the devil.  He was utterly unable to contemplate the disaster which might ensue if certain financial ties, which were thicker than cables, were snapped.  But his affection for the devil was not increased by thus being led into a charge from which he would willingly have drawn back.  Asa Waring might mean nothing to Eldon Parr, but he meant a great deal to Francis Ferguson, who had by no means forgotten his sensations of satisfaction when Mrs. Waring had made her first call in Park Street on Francis Ferguson’s wife.  He left the room in such a state of absent-mindedness as actually to pass Mr. Parr in the corridor without speaking to him.

The case of Wallis Plimpton was even worse.  He had married the Gores, but he had sought to bind himself with hoops of steel to the Warings.  He had always secretly admired that old Roman quality (which the Goodriches —­their connections—­shared) of holding fast to their course unmindful and rather scornful of influence which swayed their neighbours.  The clan was sufficient unto itself, satisfied with a moderate prosperity and a continually increasing number of descendants.  The name was unstained.  Such are the strange incongruities in the hearts of men, that few realized the extent to which Wallis Plimpton had partaken of the general hero-worship of Phil Goodrich.  He had assiduously cultivated his regard, at times discreetly boasted of it, and yet had never been sure of it.  And now fate, in the form of his master, Eldon Parr had ironically compelled him at one stroke to undo the work of years.  As soon as the meeting broke up, he crossed the room.

“I can’t tell you how much I regret this, Phil,” he said.  “Charlotte has very strong convictions, you know, and so have I. You can understand, I am sure, how certain articles of belief might be necessary to one person, and not to another.”

“Yes,” said Phil, “I can understand.  We needn’t mention the articles, Wallis.”  And he turned his back.

He never knew the pain he inflicted.  Wallis Plimpton looked at the rector, who stood talking to Mr. Waring, and for the first time in his life recoiled from an overture.

Something in the faces of both men warned him away.

Even Everett Constable, as they went home in the cars together, was brief with him, and passed no comments when Mr. Plimpton recovered sufficiently to elaborate on the justification of their act, and upon the extraordinary stand taken by Phil Goodrich and Mr. Waring.

“They might have told us what they were going to do.”

Everett Constable eyed him.

“Would it have made any difference, Plimpton?” he demanded.

After that they rode in silence, until they came to a certain West End corner, where they both descended.  Little Mr. Constable’s sensations were, if anything, less enviable, and he had not Mr. Plimpton’s recuperative powers.  He had sold that night, for a mess of pottage, the friendship and respect of three generations.  And he had fought, for pay, against his own people.