The lack of a sense of proportion is a charge often brought against women; but how often do men (as they should) thank God for it?  Here was Sophie Zobraska, reared from childhood in the atmosphere of great affairs, mixing daily with folk who guided the destiny of nations, having two years before refused in marriage one of those who held the peace of Europe in his hands, moved to tense excitement of heart and brain and soul by the news that an obscure young man might possibly be chosen to contest a London Borough for election to the British Parliament, and thrillingly convinced that now Was imminent the great momentous crisis in the history of mankind.

With a lack of the same sense of proportion, equal in kind, though perhaps not so passionate in degree, did Miss Winwood receive the world-shaking tidings.  She wept, and, thinking Paul a phoenix, called Frank Ayres an angel.  Colonel Winwood tugged his long, drooping moustache and said very little; but he committed the astounding indiscretion of allowing his glass to be filled with champagne; whereupon he lifted it, and said, “Here’s luck, my dear boy,” and somewhat recklessly gulped down the gout-compelling liquid.  And after dinner, when Miss Winwood had left them together, he lighted a long Corona instead of his usual stumpy Bock, and discussed with Paul electioneering ways and means.

For the next day or two Paul lived in a whirl of telephones, telegrams, letters, scurryings across London, interviews, brain-racking questionings and reiterated declarations of political creed.  But his selection was a foregone conclusion.  His youth, his absurd beauty, his fire and eloquence, his unswerving definiteness of aim, his magic that had inspired so many with a belief in him and had made him the Fortunate Youth, captivated the imagination of the essentially unimaginative.  Before a committee of wits and poets, Paul perhaps would not have had a dog’s chance.  But he appealed to the hard-headed merchants and professional men who chose him very much as the hero of melodrama appeals to a pit and gallery audience.  He symbolized to them hope and force and predestined triumph.  One or two at first sniffed suspiciously at his lofty ideals; but as there was no mistaking his political soundness, they let the ideals pass, as a natural and evanescent aroma.

So, in his thirtieth year, Paul was nominated as Unionist candidate for the Borough of Hickney Heath, and he saw himself on the actual threshold of the great things to which he was born.  He wrote a little note to Jane telling her the news.  He also wrote to Barney Bill:  “You dear old Tory—­did you ever dream that ragamuffin little Paul was going to represent you in Parliament?  Get out the dear old ’bus and paint it blue, with ‘Paul Savelli forever’ in gold letters, and, instead of chairs and mats, hang it with literature, telling what a wonderful fellow P. S. is.  And go through the streets of Hickney Heath with it, and say if you