linked
with unpleasant associations which he did not regard as his own.
Kegworthy was cast into the limbo of common things, and he became Paul
Savelli. But this was later.

He made friends at the theatre. Some of the women, by petting and
flattery, did their best to spoil him; but Paul was too ambitious, too
much absorbed in his dream of greatness and his dilettante literary and
musical pursuits, too much yet of a boy to be greatly affected. What he
prized far more highly than feminine blandishments was the new
comradeship with his own sex. Instinctively he sought them, as a sick
dog seeks grass, unconsciously feeling the need of them in his mental
and moral development. Besides, the attitude of the women reminded him
of that of the women painters in his younger days. He had no intention
of playing the pet monkey again. His masculinity revolted. The young
barbarian clamoured. A hard day on the river he found much more to his
taste than sporting in the shade of a Kensington flat over tea and
sandwiches with no matter how sentimental an Amaryllis. Jane, who had
seen the performance, though not from a box, a couple of upper-circle
seats being all that Paul could obtain from the acting-manager, and had
been vastly impressed by Paul's dominating position in the stage
fairy-world, said to him, with a sniff that choked a sigh: "Now that
you've got all those pretty girls around you, I suppose you soon won't
think of me any longer?"

Paul waved the dreaded houris away as though they were midges. "I'm
sick of girls," he replied in a tone of such sincerity that Jane tossed
her head.

"Oh? Then I suppose you lump me with the rest and are sick of me too?"

"Don't worry a fellow," said Paul. "You're not a girl-not in that
sense, I mean. You're a pal."

"Anyway, they're lots prettier than what I am," she said defiantly.

He looked at her critically, after the brutal manner of obtuse boyhood,
and beheld an object quite agreeable to the sight. Her Londoner's
ordinarily colourless checks were flushed, her blue eyes shone bright,
her little chin was in the air and her parted lips showed a flash of
white teeth. She wore a neat simple blouse and skirt and held her slim,
half-developed figure taut. Paul shook his head. "Jolly few of
them--without grease-paint on."

"But you see them all painted up."

He burst into laughter. "Then they're beastly, near by! You silly kid,
don't you know? We've got to make up, otherwise no one in fron