Zouche looked mysterious.
“In a palace, dear sir! A palace of golden air, peopled with winged dreams! No money could purchase it;—no ‘Empire Builder’ could build it!—it is mine and mine alone! And I pay no taxes!”
“Will you put this to some use for me?” said Leroy, holding out a gold piece; “Simply as comrade and friend?”
Zouche stared at him.
“You mean it?”
“Of course I mean it! Zouche, believe me, you are going to be the fashion! You will be able to do me a good turn before long!”
Zouche took the gold piece, and as he took it, pressed the giver’s hand.
“You mean well!” he said tremulously; “You know—as Sergius does, that I am poor,—often starving—often drunk—but you know also that there is something here!”—and he touched his forehead meaningly. “But to be the ‘fashion’! Bah! I do not belong to the Trade-ocracy! Nobody becomes the ‘fashion’ nowadays unless they have cheated their neighbours by short weight and falsified accounts! Good-night! You might be the King from your looks;—but you have something better than kingship—Heart! Good-night, Pequita! You danced well! Good-night, Lotys! You spoke well! Everyone does everything well, except poor Zouche!”
Pequita ran up to him.
“Good-night, dear Paul!”