"Yes," said Paul. "From the first time I saw you, just after I came out of Strangeways Jail, you've always inspired me, even while you angered me, and have determined me to win when otherwise I should have lost. Tell me honestly now, do you think I shall ever overcome life's handicap?"
"Does it not depend what the handicap is?"
"My handicap is that I'm nameless," he replied. "I told you the story, didn't I? At least, I tried to. Miss Bolitho, am I mad?"
"You are certainly talking very strangely."
"I hate your father," went on Paul, and his voice, although very quiet, was very intense. "The first time I saw him I hated him. No, no one is listening, you need not fear. I believed he was the tool of the Wilsons. I believe it still! I don't think he fought me fairly either. I think he dislikes me, too. But, but—shall I tell you something?"
"I think you had better not," she replied. Even although she was surrounded by a crowd of people, and their voices were wellnigh lost in the hum of conversation, she was afraid.
"I do not think I can help myself. Miss Bolitho, I have been sustained in all the work of my life by one thought—I want to win you for my wife! Do you think it's possible?" And then, without waiting for her reply, he went on: "It must be possible. It shall be possible! I will make it so."
"I must ask you to excuse me. I have some friends over here wishing to speak to me."
"Not yet," he said. "You must forgive my rudeness, but when a man feels as I feel, and have felt for years, niceties of behaviour don't count. You, in spite of everything, have become the one thing in life worth living for, and yet I ought to be ashamed of speaking to you now. I have no right!"
She looked at him wonderingly, as if not understanding what he meant.