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!