he innocences. To me she was
a goddess. I overheard her prophesy things about me. My life began from
that moment. I kept the cornelian heart all my life, as a talisman. It
has brought me through all kinds of things. Once I was going to throw
it away and Miss Winwood would not let me. I kept it, somewhat against
my will, for I thought it was a lying talisman. It had told me, in the
sweet-scented lady's words, that I was the son of a prince. Give me
half an hour to-morrow or the day after," he said, seeing a puzzled
look in Frank Ayres's face, "and I'll tell you a true psychological
fairy tale--the apologia pro vita mea. I say, anyhow, that lately,
until last night, I thought this little cornelian heart was a lying
talisman. Then I knew it didn't lie. I was the son of a prince, a
prince of men, although he had been in gaol and spent his days
afterwards in running emotional Christianity and fried-fish shops. His
name was Silas. Mine is Paul. Something significant about it, isn't
there? Anyhow"--he balanced the heart in the palm of his hand--"this
hasn't lied. It has carried me through all my life. When I thought it
failed, I found it at the purest truth of its prophecy. It's not going
to fail me now. If it's right for me to take my seat I'll take
it--whether I make good politically, or not, is on the knees of the
gods. But you may take it from me that there's nothing in this wide
world that I won't face or go through with, if I've set my mind to it."

So the child who had kicked Billy Goodge and taken the spolia opima of
paper cocked hat and wooden sword spoke through the man. As then, in a
queer way, he found himself commanding a situation; and as then,
commanding it rightfully, through sheer personal force. Again, at a
sign, he would have broken the sword across his knee. But the sign did
not come.

"Speaking quite unofficially," said Frank Ayres, "I think, if you feel
like that, you would be a fool to give up your seat."

"Very well," said Paul, "I thank you. And now, perhaps, it would be
wise to draw up that statement for the press, if you can spare the
time."

So Paul made a draft and Frank Ayres revised it, and it was sent
upstairs to be typed. When the typescript came down, Paul signed and
dispatched it and gave the Chief Whip a duplicate.

"Well," said the latter, shaking hands, "the best of good luck!"

Whereupon he went home feeling that though there would be the deuce to
pay, Paul Savelli would find himse