sation that the play was over. The sweat
broke out on his face, and he sprang to his feet, looked about him with
his white, conscious smile, and winked at himself in the mirror. With
something of the childish belief in miracles with which he had so often
gone to class, all his lessons unlearned, Paul dressed and dashed
whistling down the corridor to the elevator.

He had no sooner entered the dining-room and caught the measure of the
music, than his remembrance was lightened by his old elastic power of
claiming the moment, mounting with it, and finding it all sufficient. The
glare and glitter about him, the mere scenic accessories had again, and
for the last time, their old potency. He would show himself that he was
game, he would finish the thing splendidly. He doubted, more than ever,
the existence of Cordelia Street, and for the first time he drank his
wine recklessly. Was he not, after all, one of these fortunate beings?
Was he not still himself, and in his own place? He drummed a nervous
accompaniment to the music and looked about him, telling himself over and
over that it had paid.

He reflected drowsily, to the swell of the violin and the chill sweetness
of his wine, that he might have done it more wisely. He might have caught
an outbound steamer and been well out of their clutches before now. But
the other side of the world had seemed too far away and too uncertain
then; he could not have waited for it; his need had been too sharp. If he
had to choose over again, he would do the same thing tomorrow. He looked
affectionately about the dining-room, now gilded with a soft mist. Ah, it
had paid indeed!

Paul was awakened next morning by a painful throbbing in his head and
feet. He had thrown himself across the bed without undressing, and had
slept with his shoes on. His limbs and hands were lead heavy, and his
tongue and throat were parched. There came upon him one of those fateful
attacks of clear-headedness that never occurred except when he was
physically exhausted and his nerves hung loose. He lay still and closed
his eyes and let the tide of realities wash over him.

His father was in New York; "stopping at some joint or other," he told
himself. The memory of successive summers on the front stoop fell upon
him like a weight of black water. He had not a hundred dollars left; and
he knew now, more than ever, that money was everything, the wall that
stood between all he loathed and all he wanted. The thing was