though early retirement was prescribed, went among the strange men
and women of the aristocratic caste 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