He had no sooner entered the dining-room and caught the measure of the music, than his remembrance was lightened by his old elastic power of claiming the moment, mounting with it, and finding it all sufficient.  The glare and glitter about him, the mere scenic accessories had again, and for the last time, their old potency.  He would show himself that he was game, he would finish the thing splendidly.  He doubted, more than ever, the existence of Cordelia Street, and for the first time he drank his wine recklessly.  Was he not, after all, one of these fortunate beings?  Was he not still himself, and in his own place?  He drummed a nervous accompaniment to the music and looked about him, telling himself over and over that it had paid.

He reflected drowsily, to the swell of the violin and the chill sweetness of his wine, that he might have done it more wisely.  He might have caught an outbound steamer and been well out of their clutches before now.  But the other side of the world had seemed too far away and too uncertain then; he could not have waited for it; his need had been too sharp.  If he had to choose over again, he would do the same thing tomorrow.  He looked affectionately about the dining-room, now gilded with a soft mist.  Ah, it had paid indeed!

Paul was awakened next morning by a painful throbbing in his head and feet.  He had thrown himself across the bed without undressing, and had slept with his shoes on.  His limbs and hands were lead heavy, and his tongue and throat were parched.  There came upon him one of those fateful attacks of clear-headedness that never occurred except when he was physically exhausted and his nerves hung loose.  He lay still and closed his eyes and let the tide of realities wash over him.

His father was in New York; “stopping at some joint or other,” he told himself.  The memory of successive summers on the front stoop fell upon him like a weight of black water.  He had not a hundred dollars left; and he knew now, more than ever, that money was everything, the wall that stood between all he loathed and all he wanted.  The thing was winding itself up; he had thought of that on his first glorious day in New York, and had even provided a way to snap the thread.  It lay on his dressing-table now; he had got it out last night when he came blindly up from dinner,—­but the shiny metal hurt his eyes, and he disliked the look of it, anyway.

He rose and moved about with a painful effort, succumbing now and again to attacks of nausea.  It was the old depression exaggerated; all the world had become Cordelia Street.  Yet somehow he was not afraid of anything, was absolutely calm; perhaps because he had looked into the dark corner at last, and knew.  It was bad enough, what he saw there; but somehow not so bad as his long fear of it had been.  He saw everything clearly now.  He had a feeling that he had made the best of it, that he had lived the sort of life he was meant to live, and for half an hour he sat staring at the revolver.  But he told himself that was not the way, so he went downstairs and took a cab to the ferry.