“Do you think I’m a greater-hearted woman than she?  Wait, I’ve not finished,” she cried in a loud voice.  “Your Princess—­you cut her heart into bits the other day, when you proclaimed yourself a low-born impostor.  She thought you a high-born gentleman, and you told her of the gutter up north and the fried-fish shop and the Sicilian organ-grinding woman.  She, royalty—­you of the scum!  She left you.  This morning she learned worse.  She learned that you were the son of a convict.  What does she do?  She comes somehow—­I don’t know how—­to Hickney Heath and hears you publicly give yourself away—­and she drives straight here with a message for you.  It’s for you, the message.  Who else?” She stood before Paul, a flashing Jane unknown.  “Would a woman who didn’t love you come to this house to-night?  She wouldn’t, Paul.  You know it!  Dear old Bill here, who hasn’t moved in royal circles, knows it.  No, my dear man,” she said regally, “I’ve given you all my love—­everything that is in me—­ since I was a child of thirteen.  You will always have it.  It’s my great joy that you’ll always have it.  But, by God, Paul, I’m not going to exchange it for anything less.  Can you give me the same?”

“You know I can’t,” said Paul.  “But I can give you that which would make our marriage a happy one.  I believe the experience of the world has shown it to be the securest basis.”

She was on the point of breaking out, but turned away, with clenched hands, and, controlling herself, faced him again.  “You’re an honourable and loyal man, Paul, and you’re saying this to save your face.  I know that you would marry me.  I know that you would be faithful to me in thought and word and act.  I know that you would be good and kind and never give me a moment’s cause for complaint.  But your heart would be with the other woman.  Whether she’s out of your sphere or not—­what does it matter to me?  You love her and she loves you.  I know it.  I should always know it.  You’d be living in hell and so should I. I should prefer to remain in purgatory, which, after all, is quite bearable—­I’m used to it—­and I love you enough to wish to see you in paradise.”

She turned away with a wide gesture and an upward inflexion of her voice.  Barney Bill refilled his pipe and fixed Paul with his twinkling diamond eyes.  “It’s a pity, sonny—­a dodgasted pity!”

“We’re up against the Truth, old man, the unashamed and naked truth,” said Paul, with a sigh.

Jane caught Paul’s fur-lined coat and hat from the chair on which he had thrown it and came to him.  “It’s time for you to go and rest, dear.  We’re all of us exhausted.”

She helped him on with the heavy coat, and for farewell put both her hands on his shoulders.  “You must forget a lot of things I’ve said to-night.”

“I can’t help remembering them.”

“No, dear.  Forget them.”  She drew his face down and kissed him on the lips.  Then she led him out to the front door and accompanied him down the steps to the kerb where the car with its weary chauffeur was waiting.  The night had cleared and the stars shone bright in the sky.  She pointed to one, haphazard.  “Your star, Paul.  Believe in it still.”