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 black. It was in a
stupor of despair that he heard her say, "Wait a bit here, till I've
got rid of these people."

He stumbled away and stood on the bearskin rug before the fireplace,
while she joined the lingering group by the door. The two or three
minutes were an eternity of agony to Paul. He had lost his great
game.

Miss Winwood shut the door and came swiftly to him and laid her hand
on his arm. Paul hung his head and looked into the fire. "My poor
boy!" she said very tenderly. "What are you going to do with
yourself?"

If it had not been for the diabolical irony of the mishap he would
have answered with his gay flourish. But now he could not so answer.
Boyish, hateful tears stood in his eyes and, in spite of anguished
effort of will, threatened to fall. He continued to look into the
fire, so that she should not see them. "I shall go on as I always
have done," he said as stoutly as he could.

"Your prospects are not very bright, I fear."

"I shall keep my head above water," said Paul. "Oh, please don't!"
he cried, shivering. "You have been so good to me. I can't bear you