“Then,” Paul continued, with a smile, “I must say that from my childhood I have been fired with a curious certainty that I would succeed in life.  Chance has helped me.  How far a divine hand has been specially responsible, it isn’t for me to conjecture.  But I know that if I hadn’t believed in myself I shouldn’t have had my small measure of success.”

“You believe in yourself?”

“Yes.  And I believe in making others believe in me.”

“That is strange—­very strange.”  Mr. Finn fixed him with his deep, sorrowful eyes.  “You believe that you’re predestined to a great position.  You believe that you have in you all that is needful to attain it.  That has carried you through.  Strange!” He put his hand to his temple, elbow on table, and still regarded Paul.  “But there’s God behind it all.  Mr. Savelli,” he said earnestly, after a slight pause, “you are twenty-eight; I am fifty-eight; so I’m more than old enough to be your father.  You’ll forgive my taking up the attitude of the older man.  I have lived a life such as your friends on the platform to-night—­honorable, clean, sweet people—­I’ve nothing to say against them—­have no conception.  I am English, of course—­London born.  My father was an Englishman; but my mother was a Sicilian.  She used to go about with a barrel-organ—­my father ran away with her.  I have that violent South in my blood, and I’ve lived nearly all my days in London.  I’ve had to pay dearly for my blood.  The only compensation it has given me is a passion for art”—­he waved his lean, bediamonded hand towards the horrific walls.  “That is external—­in a way—­mere money has enabled me to gratify my tastes; but, as I was saying, I have lived a life of strange struggle, material, physical, and”—­he brought down his free hand with a bang on the table—­“it is only by the grace of God and the never-ceasing presence of Our Lord Jesus Christ by my side, that—­ that I am able to offer you my modest hospitality this evening.”

Paul felt greatly drawn to the man.  He was beyond doubt sincere.  He wore the air of one who had lived fiercely, who had suffered, who had conquered; but the air of one whose victory was barren, who was looking into the void for the things unconquerable yet essential to salvation.  Paul made a little gesture of attention.  He could find no words to reply.  A man’s deep profession of faith is unanswerable.

“Ah,” said Barney Bill, “you ought to have come along o’ me, Silas, years ago in the old ’bus.  You mightn’t have got all these bright pictures, but you wouldn’t have had these ’ere gloomy ideas.  I don’t say as how I don’t hold with Gawd,” he explained, with uplifted forefinger and cocked head; “but if ever I thinks of Him, I like to feel that He’s in the wind or in the crickle-crackle of the earth, just near and friendly like, but not a-worrying of a chap, listening for every cuss-word as he uses to his old horse, and measuring every half-pint he pours down his dusty throat.  No.  That ain’t my idea of Gawd.  But then I ain’t got religion.”