d feeling that the orchestra
had suddenly stopped, the sinking sensation 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 old 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 those fortunate
beings born to the purple, was he not still himself and in his own
place? He drummed a nervous accompaniment to the Pagliacci music and
looked about him, telling himself over and over that it had paid.

He reflected drowsily, to the swell of the music 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 and burnt. There came upon him one of
those fateful attacks of clearheadedness that never occurred except when
he was physically exhausted and his nerves hung loose. He lay still,
closed his eyes, and let the tide of things 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, tha