He seldom looked at it, never at the silver-engraved inscription on the walnut shield.
Strangely enough, now as he sat there, he thought of the trophy and looked up at it; and for the first time in his life read the inscription.
It made no visible impression upon him except that for a brief moment the small and vivid patches of colour in his wasted cheeks faintly tinted the general pallor.

But this died out as soon as it appeared; he drank deliberately, set the hot glass on a table at his elbow, long, bony fingers still retaining a grip upon it.
And into his unconcentrated thoughts, strangely enough, came the memories of little meannesses which he had committed--trivial things that he supposed he had forgotten long ago; and at first, annoyed, he let memory drift.
But, imperceptibly, from the shallows of these little long-forgotten meannesses, memory drifted uncontrolled into deeper currents; and, disdainful, he made no effort to control it; and later, could not.

And for the first time in his life he took the trouble to understand the reason of his unpopularity among men.

He had cared nothing for them.
He cared nothing for them now, unless that half tolerant, half disdainful companionship of years with Delancy Grandcourt could be called caring for a man.

If their relations ever had been anything more than a habit he did not know; on what their friendship had ever been founded he could not tell.