Colonel Winwood, who (like the seniors of every age) deplored the
lack of manners of the rising generation, was pleased by the ever so
little elaborate courtesy.

"I'm only too glad we've pulled you round. You've had a bad time, I
hear."

Paul smiled. "Pretty bad. If it hadn't been for Miss Winwood and all
she has done for me, I should have pegged out."

"My sister's a notable woman," said the Colonel. "When she sets out
to do a thing she does it thoroughly."

"I owe her my life," said Paul simply.

There was a pause. The two men, both bright-eyed, looked at each
other for the fraction of a second. One, the aristocrat secure of
his wealth, of his position, of himself, with no illusion left him
save pride of birth, no dream save that of an England mighty and
prosperous under continuous centuries of Tory rule, no memories but
of stainless honour--he had fought gallantly for his Queen, he had
lived like a noble gentleman, he had done his country disinterested
service--no ambition but to keep himself on the level of the ideal
which he had long since attained; the other the creation of nothing
but of dreams, the child of the gutter, the adventurer, the
vagabond, with no address, not even a back room over a sweetstuff
shop in wide England, the possessor of a few suits of old clothes
and one pound, one shilling and a penny, with nothing in front of
him but the vast blankness of 'life, nothing behind him save
memories of sordid struggle, with nothing to guide him, nothing to