The collar of his tunic strangled him.

He stuffed his fingers underneath, and wrenched; then as he came and went, catching sight in a mirror, was shocked to see that, in Biblical fashion, he had rent his garments.
"This is bad," he thought, staring.

"It is the heat.

I must not stay alone." He shouted, clapped his hands for a servant, and at last, snatching a coat from his unruffled boy, hurried away through stillness and moonlight to the detested club.

On the stairs a song greeted him,--a fragment with more breath than melody, in a raw bass:-- "Jolly boating weather, And a hay harvest breeze!" "Shut up!" snarled another voice.