tal than
history; more real than chronicle. It is memory!" He paused and his eyes
were altogether grave.

"As I reflect on Austerlitz, I find myself saying, 'I did well there,'
and for Waterloo and St. Helena my chagrin and misery are personal. Why
should I doubt that once my own spirit dwelt in another body--in his,
perhaps?" His voice mounted, and he continued, "But this time the
spirit must go further. It must never taste defeat. Its triumph must
grow to the end, and surrender its scepter and baton only to Death."

The mother looked up at the exalted fantasy which glowed in her son's
face and her head shook uncomprehendingly. "It seems only yesterday,"
she said "that I held you, a soft little morsel of pink flesh, close to
my breast. I dreamed of no great triumphs for you. Only goodness and
health. Perhaps it was as well that way. I sometimes wonder if any woman
could face her responsibilities if she knew she was giving birth to one
of the masters of the world. My only vanity was to name you Hamilton.
And Paul I named for the great apostle." She laughed very low--and her
son knelt beside her chair and drew her into his embrace.

CHAPTER XVIII

Paul, who was named for the apostle, and Loraine Haswell had drifted
further into midstream than either realized. Less keen observers than
Norvil Thayre now spoke of their frequent meetings. Club conversation
intimated that not only financial stress was responsible for the
silencing of Len Haswell's jovial laughter.

Loraine's point of view was shifting dangerously. Paul had at first been
a pleasing playmate and a celebrity whose devotion was flattering as a
tribute to her charm and beauty. Now a constant comparison asserted
itself to her mind between her husband's financial limitations and the
pleasing scope of Paul's access to Hamilton's treasury. Discontent had
entered her Eden--and it was no longer an Eden.

One morning Paul's telephone rang before he was out of bed.

"I must see you," announced Loraine, and the familiar voice was
excitedly urgent. "Len has been odious and I--I want your advice.
There's no one else that I can talk to."

Paul Burton hesitated. His timidity balked at facing a moment which
might call upon him to take a courageous stand or one fronting possible
reprisals. Over his face crept a terror very much like that which had
blanched it years ago when the Marquess kid threatened him with grimaces
across the school aisle. He divined the sub