But Paul had already chosen.  The Road had its magical fascination, to which he would have surrendered all his boyish soul, had not the call of his destiny been more insistent.  The Road led nowhither.  Princes and princesses were as rare as hips and haws in summer-time.  Their glittering equipages did not stop the van, nor did they stand at the emblazoned gateways of great parks waiting patiently for long-lost sons.  He knew that he must seek them in their own social world, and to this he would surely be raised by his phantasmagorial income of thirty shillings a week.

“You won’t object to my keeping a friendly eye on yer for the next year or two?” asked Barney Bill, with twisted mouth and a kindly, satirical glance.

Paul flushed.  He had the consciousness of being a selfish, self-centered little beast, not half enough grateful to Barney Bill for delivering him out of the House of Bondage and leading him into the Land of Milk and Honey.  He was as much stung by the delicately implied rebuke as touched by the solicitude as to his future welfare.  Romantic words, such as he had read in the story-books, surged vaguely in his head, but he could find none to utter.  He kept silent for a few moments, his hand in his breeches pocket.  Presently he drew it forth rather slowly, and held out the precious cornelian heart to his benefactor.

“I ’ud like to give it thee,” said Paul.

Barney Bill took it.  “Thank ’ee, sonny.  I’ll remember that you gave it to me.  But I won’t keep yer talisman.  ’Ere, see—­” he made a pretence to spit on it—­“that’s for luck.  Barney Bill’s luck, and good wishes.”

So Paul pocketed the heart again, immensely relieved by his friend’s magnanimity, and the little sentimental episode was over.

A month later, when Barney Bill started on his solitary winter pilgrimage in the South of England, he left behind him a transmogrified Paul, a Paul, thanks to his munificence, arrayed in decent garments, including collar and tie (insignia of caste) and an overcoat (symbol of luxury), for which Paul was to repay him out of his future earnings; a Paul lodged in a small but comfortable third-floor-back, a bedroom all to himself, with a real bed, mattress, pillow, sheets, and blankets all complete, and a looking-glass, and a stand with ewer and basin so beautiful that, at first, Paul did not dare wash for fear of making the water dirty; a Paul already engaged for a series of sittings by Mr. Cyrus Rowlatt, R.A., his head swimming with the wonder of the fashionable painter’s studio; a Paul standing in radiant confidence upon the brink of life.

“Sonny,” said Barney Bill, when he said good-bye, “d’yer see them there lovely lace-up boots you’ve got on?”

“Ay,” said Paul, regarding them complacently.

“Well, they’ve got to take yer all the way up the hill, like the young man what’s his name?—­Excelsure—­in the piece of poetry you recite; but they’ll only do it if they continues to fit.  Don’t get too big for ’em.  At any rate, wait till they’re worn out and yer can buy another pair with yer own money.”