ossible to stand quite
alone."

The Irishman laid down his cigarette. With native quickness of
comprehension, the spirit of banter dropped from him, his mood merged
into the boy's mood.

"No," he said, "we are not meant to stand quite alone, and when two of
us are flung up against each other as we have been flung, by a wave of
circumstance, you may take it that the gods control the currents. In our
case I would say, 'Let's bow to the inevitable! Let's be friends!'" He
put out his hand and took the boy's strong, slim fingers in his grasp.

"I don't want your secret," he added, with a quickening interest, "but I
want to know one thing. Tell me what you are seeking here in Paris? Is
it pleasure, or money, or what?"

He watched the boy's mobile face as he put his question: he saw it swept
by emotion, transfigured as if by some inner light; then the hand in his
trembled a little, and the gray eyes with their flecks of gold were
lifted to his own, giving insight into the hidden soul.

"I want more than pleasure, monsieur--more than money," he said. "I want
first life--and then fame."

CHAPTER VII

It trembled and hung upon the air--that brief word "fame"--as it has so
often hung and trembled in the streets and in the _cafes_ of Paris,
winged with the exuberance of youth, the faith in his mystic star that
abides in the heart of the artist. In that moment of confession the
individuality of the boy was submerged in his ambition; he belonged to
no country, to no sex. He was inspiration made manifest--the flame
fanned into being by the winds of the universe, blown as those winds
listed.

The Irishman looked into his burning face, and a curious unnamable
feeling thrilled him--a sense of enthusiasm, of profound sadness, of
poignant envy.

"You're not only seeking the greatest thing in the world," he said,
slowly, "but the cruellest. Failure may be cruel, but success is
crueller still. The gods are usurers, you know; they lend to mortals,
but they exact a desperate interest."

The boy's hand, still lying unconsciously in his, trembled again.

"I know that; but it does not frighten me."

"A challenge? Take care! The gods are always listening."

"I know that. I am not afraid."

"So be it, then! I'll watch the duel. But what road do you
follow--music? literature? Art of some sort, of course; you are artist
all over."

Again the fire leaped to the boy's eyes. He snatched his hand away in
quick excitement.