"Heavens!" He reached out his arms and brought them to his sides again with a strenuous motion, all his muscles contracted. "I have learnt," he cried, "the lesson that life is not only real and earnest, but that life is hard, that life is a battle—a battle to be won!"
His eyes fell upon his strong, sinewy, brown hands, and he clenched his fists.
"I am not going back to England. I am going on—to win that girl of the picture—from you!"
Boris regarded him pleasantly.
"It seems," he said, "that you are not in a very good humour this evening."
"My humour suits me very well," answered Paul. He rose and walked over to the door, and held it open.
"For the present," he said, "you may go, but if I were you I would be careful how I indulged in any villainy."
Boris laughed lightly as he paused in the doorway.
"I am still thinking of Mademoiselle Vseslavitch," he said.
"Then you make a vast mistake," Paul answered. "She is not for you."