England. He stood thrilled. The ambition was no longer the
wild dream of yesterday. From the heart of the great affairs in which
he would have his being he could pluck his awakening instrument. The
world seemed suddenly to become real. And in the midst of it was this
wonderful, beautiful, dearest lady with her keen insight, her delicate
sympathy, her warm humanity. With some extravagance he consecrated
himself to her service.

After a while he sat down soberly and took from his pocket the
cornelian heart which his first goddess had given him twelve years ago.
What had become of her? He did not even know her name. But what
happiness, he thought, to meet her in the plenitude of his greatness
and show her the heart, and say, "I owe it all to you!" To her alone of
mortals would he reveal himself.

And then he thought of Barney Bill, who had helped him on his way; of
Rowlatt, good fellow, who was dead; and of Jane, whom he had lost. He
wished he could write to Jane and tell her the wonderful news. She
would understand.... Well, well! It was time for bed. He rose and
switched off the lights and went to his room. But as he walked through
the great, noiseless house, he felt, in spite of Fortune's bounty, a
loneliness of soul; also irritation at having lost Jane. What a letter
he could have written to her! He could not say the things with which
his heart was bursting to anyone on earth but Jane. Why had he lost
Jane? The prospective Awakener of England wanted Jane.

CHAPTER XI

ONE morning Paul, with a clump of papers in his hand, entered his
pleasant private room at Drane's Court, stepped briskly to the long
Cromwellian table placed in the window bay, and sat down to his
correspondence.

It was gusty outside, as could be perceived by the shower of yellow
beech leaves that slanted across the view; but indoors a great fire
flaming up the chimney, a Turkey carpet fading into beauty, rich
eighteenth century mezzotints on the walls, reposeful leather-covered
chairs and a comfortable bookcase gave an atmosphere of warmth and
coziness. Paul lit a cigarette and attacked a pile of unopened letters.
At last he came to an envelope, thick and faintly scented, bearing a
crown on the flap. He opened it and read:

DEAR MR. SAVELLI:

Will you dine on Saturday and help me entertain an eminent
Egyptologist? I know nothing of Egypt save Shepheard's Hotel, and that
I'm afraid wouldn't interest him. Do come to my rescue. Yours, SOPHI