“Quite a pretty little romance,” laughed the Baron.
“That's all,” added the woman at the glass. “She said you would understand.”
From under her painted lashes she flashed a glance at me. I hope never to see again that look upon a woman's face.
“Thank you,” I said. “Yes, I understand. It was very kind of you. I shall always wear it.”
Placing the ring upon my finger, I left the room.
CHAPTER X.
PAUL FINDS HIS WAY.
Slowly, surely, steadily I climbed, putting aside all dreams, paying strict attention to business. Often my other self, little Paul of the sad eyes, would seek to lure me from my work. But for my vehement determination never to rest for a moment till I had purchased back my honesty, my desire—growing day by day, till it became almost a physical hunger—to feel again the pressure of Norah's strong white hand in mine, he might possibly have succeeded. Heaven only knows what then he might have made of me: politician, minor poet, more or less able editor, hampered by convictions—something most surely of but little service to myself. Now and again, with a week to spare—my humour making holiday, nothing to be done but await patiently its return—I would write stories for my own pleasure. They made no mark; but success in purposeful work is of slower growth. Had I persisted—but there was money to be earned. And by the time my debts were paid, I had established a reputation.
“Madness!” argued practical friends. “You would be throwing away a certain fortune for, at the best, a doubtful competence. The one you know you can do, the other—it would be beginning your career all over again.”