that the faces and behaviour of his neighbours lacked anything he could grasp and secretly abuse.  They continued to converse with admirable and slightly conscious phlegm, yet he knew, as well as if each one had whispered to him privately, that this shady incident had shaken them.  Something unsettling to their notions of propriety-something dangerous and destructive of complacency—­had occurred, and this was unforgivable.  Each had a different way, humorous or philosophic, contemptuous, sour, or sly, of showing this resentment.  But by a flash of insight Shelton saw that at the bottom of their minds and of his own the feeling was the same.  Because he shared in their resentment he was enraged with them and with himself.  He looked at the plump, sleek hand of the woman with the Roman nose.  The insulation and complacency of its pale skin, the passive righteousness about its curve, the prim separation from the others of the fat little finger, had acquired a wholly unaccountable importance.  It embodied the verdict of his fellow-passengers, the verdict of Society; for he knew that, whether or no repugnant to the well-bred mind, each assemblage of eight persons, even in a third-class carriage, contains the kernel of Society.

But being in love, and recently engaged, Shelton had a right to be immune from discontent of any kind, and he reverted to his mental image of the cool, fair face, quick movements, and the brilliant smile that now in his probationary exile haunted his imagination; he took out his fiancee’s last letter, but the voice of the young foreigner addressing him in rapid French caused him to put it back abruptly.

“From what she tells me, sir,” he said, bending forward to be out of hearing of the girl, “hers is an unhappy case.  I should have been only too glad to help her, but, as you see”—­and he made a gesture by which Shelton observed that he had parted from his waistcoat—­“I am not Rothschild.  She has been abandoned by the man who brought her over to Dover under promise of marriage.  Look”—­and by a subtle flicker of his eyes he marked how the two ladies had edged away from the French girl “they take good care not to let their garments touch her.  They are virtuous women.  How fine a thing is virtue, sir! and finer to know you have it, especially when you are never likely to be tempted.”

Shelton was unable to repress a smile; and when he smiled his face grew soft.

“Haven’t you observed,” went on the youthful foreigner, “that those who by temperament and circumstance are worst fitted to pronounce judgment are usually the first to judge?  The judgments of Society are always childish, seeing that it’s composed for the most part of individuals who have never smelt the fire.  And look at this:  they who have money run too great a risk of parting with it if they don’t accuse the penniless of being rogues and imbeciles.”

Shelton was startled, and not only by an outburst of philosophy from an utter stranger in poor clothes, but at this singular wording of his own private thoughts.  Stifling his sense of the unusual for the queer attraction this young man inspired, he said: