ceremony. I bowed and turned away, careless whether
he was offended or not.

"I am glad I saw you," she continued. "Do you remember a girl called
Barbara? You and she were rather chums, years ago.

"Yes," I answered, "I remember her."

"Well, she died, poor girl, three years ago." She was rubbing paint into
her cheeks as she spoke. "She asked me if ever I saw you to give you
this. I have been carrying it about with me ever since."

She took a ring from her finger. It was the one ring Barbara had worn
as a girl, a chrysolite set plainly in a band of gold. I had noticed
it upon her hand the first time I had seen her, sitting in my father's
office framed by the dusty books and papers. She dropped it into my
outstretched palm.

"Quite a pretty little romance," laughed the Baron.

"That's all," added the woman at the glass. "She said you would
understand."

From under her painted lashes she flashed a glance at me. I hope never
to see again that look upon a woman's face.

"Thank you," I said. "Yes, I understand. It was very kind of you. I
shall always wear it."

Placing the ring upon my finger, I left the room.

CHAPTER X.

PAUL FINDS HIS WAY.

Slowly, surely, steadily I climbed, putting aside all dreams, paying
strict attention to business. Often my other self, little Paul of
the sad eyes, would seek to lure me from my work. But for my vehement
determination never to rest for a moment till I had purchased back my
honesty, my desire--growing day by day, till it became almost a physical
hunger--to feel again the pressure of Norah's strong white hand in mine,
he might possibly have succeeded. Heaven only knows what then he might
have made of me: politician, minor poet, more or less able editor,
hampered by convictions--something most surely of but little service to
myself. Now and again, with a week to spare--my humour making holiday,
nothing to be done but await patiently its return--I would write stories
for my own pleasure. They made no mark; but success in purposeful work
is of slower growth. Had I persisted--but there was money to be earned.
And by the time my debts were paid, I had established a reputation.

"Madness!" argued practical friends. "You would be throwing away a
certain fortune for, at the best, a doubtful competence. The one you
know you can do, the other--it would be beginning your career all over
again."

"You would find it almost impossible now," explained those who spoke, I
knew, w