It had been his habit to take from Delancy, accept, or help himself.

He had helped himself to Rosalie Dene; and not long ago he had accepted all that Delancy offered, almost convinced at the time that it would disappear in the debacle when the Algonquin crumbled into a rubbish heap of rotten securities.
A curious friendship--and the only friend he ever had had among men--stupid, inertly at hand, as inevitably to be counted on as some battered toy of childhood which escaped the dust heap so long that custom tolerates its occupation of any closet space convenient: and habit, at intervals, picks it up to see what's left of it.
* * * * * He had finished his whiskey; the fire seemed to have grown too hot, and he shoved back his chair.

But the room, too, was becoming close, even stifling.

Perspiration glistened on his forehead; he rose and began to wander from room to room, followed always by the stealthy glances of servants.
The sweat on his face had become unpleasantly cold; he came back to the fire, endured it for a few moments, then, burning and shivering at the same time, and preferring the latter sensation, he went out to his letter-box and unlocked it.

There was only one envelope there, a letter from the governing board of the club requesting his resignation.
The possibility of such an event had never occurred to him; he read the letter again, folded and placed it in his pocket, went back to the fire with the idea of burning it, took it out, read it again, folded it absently, and replaced it in his pocket.
At that time, except for the dull surprise, the episode did not seem to affect him particularly.