like one in a dream of bliss. Much of their
talk, sport and personalities, was unintelligible; every man seemed to
have killed everything everywhere and every woman seemed to know
everybody and everybody's intimate secrets. So when conversation was
general, Paul, who had killed nothing and knew nobody, listened in
silent perplexity. But even the perplexity was a happiness. It was all
so new, so fascinating. For was not this world of aristocrats--there
were lords and ladies and great personages whose names he had read in
the newspapers--his rightful inheritance, the sphere to which he had
been born? And they did not always talk of things which he did not
understand. They received him among them with kind welcome and
courtesy. No one asked him whence he came and whither he was going.
They took him for granted, as a guest of the Winwoods. Of course if
Paul had seen himself on the way to rival the famous actor whose
photograph in the window of the London Stereoscopic Company had
inspired him with histrionic ambitions, he would have been at no pains
to hide his profession. But between the darling of the London stage and
a seedy member of a fit-up company lies a great gulf. He shrank from
being associated with Mr. Vincent Crummles. One thing, however, of
invaluable use he had brought with him from Theatreland--the dress suit
which formed part of his stage wardrobe. There were other things, too,
which he did not appreciate--ease of manner, victory over the lingering
Lancastrian burr, and a knowledge of what to do with his feet and hands.

One day he had a great shock. The house party were assembling in the
drawing-room, when in sailed the great lady, the ever-memorable great
lady, the Marchioness of Chudley, who had spoken to him and smiled on
him in the Bludston factory. Fear laid a cold grip on his heart. He
thought of pleading weakness and running away to the safe obscurity of
his room. But it was too late. The procession was formed immediately,
and he found himself in his place with his partner on his arm. Dinner
was torture. What he said to his neighbours he knew not. He dared not
look up the table where Lady Chudley sat in full view. Every moment he
expected--ridiculous apprehension of an accusing conscience--Colonel
Winwood to come and tap him on the shoulder and bid him begone. But
nothing happened. Afterwards, in the drawing-room, Fate drove him into
a corner near Lady Chudley, whose eyes he met clear upon him. He turn