It's rather useful, you see, in such a case--a technical pretext, you
know. . . . I forget the exact phrasing; something about' ceases to
retain his membership, and such shares of stock as he may own in the
said club shall be appraised and delivered to the treasurer upon receipt
of the value'--or something like that."
Still Neergard looked at him, hunched up in his chair, chin sunk on his
chest.
"Thought it just as well to mention it," said Ruthven blandly, "as
they've seen fit to take advantage of the--ah--opportunity--under legal
advice. You'll hear from the secretary, I fancy--Mottly, you know. . . .
_Is_ there anything more, Neergard?"
Neergard scarcely heard him. He had listened, mechanically, when told in
as many words that he had been read out of the Siowitha Club; he
understood that he stood alone, discarded, disgraced, with a certain
small coterie of wealthy men implacably hostile to him. But it was not
that which occupied him: he was face to face with the new element of
which he had known nothing--the subtle, occult resistance to himself and
his personality, all that he represented, embodied, stood for, hoped
for.
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