He had ever loved to be the centre of a picture, but here was a time when to be in the centre was torture.

Eyes of morbid curiosity were looking at the open wounds of his heart-ragged wounds made by the shrapnel of tragedy and treachery, not the clean wounds got in a fair fight, easily healed.

For the moment at least the little egoist was a mere suffering soul--an epitome of shame, misery and disappointment.

He must straightway flee the place where he was tied to the stake of public curiosity and scorn.

He drew the reins tighter, and the horses straightened to depart.