a social microcosm for Paul. Every eye
was upon him. In spite of himself, his accusing hand went fingering the
inanity of his waistcoat front. He also fingered, with a horrible
fascination, the dirty piece of card that took the place of his watch
in his pocket.

One must be twenty to realize the tragedy of it. Dans un grenier qu'on
est bien a vingt ans! To be twenty, in a garret, with the freedom and
the joy of it! Yes; the dear poet was right. In those "brave days" the
poignancy of life comes not in the garret, but in the palace.

To-morrow, with his jacket buttoned, he could make his exit from
Drane's Court in the desired splendour--scattering largesse to menials
and showing to hosts the reflected glow of the golden prospects before
him; but for this evening the glory had departed. Besides, it was his
last evening there, and London's welcome tomorrow would be none too
exuberant.

The little party was breaking up, the ladies retiring for the night,
and the men about to accompany Colonel Winwood to the library for a
final drink and cigarette. Paul shook hands with Miss Winwood.

"Good night--and good-bye," she said, "if you take the early train. But
must you really go to-morrow?"

"I must," said Paul.

"I hope we'll very soon be seeing you again. Give me your address." She
moved to a bridge table and caught up the marking block, which she
brought to him. "Now I've forgotten the pencil."

"I've got one," said Paul, and impulsively thrusting his fingers into
his waistcoat pocket, flicked them out with the pencil. But he also
flicked out the mean-looking card of which he had been hatefully
conscious all the evening. The Imp of Mischance arranged that as Miss
Winwood stood close by his side, it should fall, unperceived by him, on
the folds of her grey velvet train. He wrote the Bloomsbury address and
handed her the leaf torn from the pad. She folded it up, moved away,
turning back to smile. As she turned she happened to look downward;
then she stooped and picked the card from her dress. A conjecture of
horror smote Paul. He made a step forward and stretched out his hand;
but not before she had instinctively glanced first at the writing and
then at his barren waistcoat. She repressed a slight gasp, regarding
him with steady, searching eyes.

His dark face flushed crimson as he took the accursed thing, desiring
no greater boon from Heaven than instant death. He felt sick with
humiliation. The brightly lit room grew