“It seems rum,” said Bill, wiping his lips with the back of his hand, after a mighty pull at the pint tankard—­“it seems rum that you should be standing me drinks at a swell place like this.  It seems only yesterday that you was a two-penn’orth of nothing jogging along o’ me in the old ’bus.”

“I’ve moved a bit since then, haven’t I?” said Paul.

“You have, sonny,” said Barney Bill.  “But"-he sighed and looked around the noisy glittering place, at the smart barmaids, the well-clad throng of loungers, some in evening dress, the half-dozen gorgeous ladies sitting with men at little tables by the window—­ “I thinks as how you gets more real happiness in a quiet village pub, and the beer is cheaper, and—­gorblimey!”

He ran his finger between his stringy neck and the frayed stand-up collar that would have sawn his head off but for the toughness of his hide.  To do Paul honour he had arrayed himself in his best—­a wondrously cut and heavily-braided morning coat and lavender-coloured trousers of eccentric shape, and a funny little billycock hat too small for him, and a thunder-and-lightning necktie, all of which he had purchased nearly twenty years ago to grace a certain, wedding a. which he had been best man.  Since then he had worn the Nessus shirt of a costume not more than half-a-dozen times.  The twisted, bright-eyed little man, so obviously ill at ease in his amazing garb, and the beautiful youth, debonair in his well-fitting blue serge, formed a queer contrast.

“Don’t you never long for the wind of God and the smell of the rain?” asked Barney Bill.

“I haven’t the time,” said Paul.  “I’m busy all day long.”

“Well, well,” said Barney Bill, “the fellow wasn’t far wrong who said it takes all sorts to make a world.  There are some as likes electric light and some as likes the stars.  Gimme the stars.”  And in his countryman’s way he set the beer in his tankard swirling round and round before he put it again to his lips.

Paul sipped his beer reflectively.  “You may find happiness and peace of soul under the stars,” said he, sagely, “and if I were a free agent I’d join you tomorrow.  But you can’t find fame.  You can’t rise to great things.  I want to—­well, I don’t quite know what I want to do,” he laughed, “but it’s something big.”

“Yuss, my boy,” said Barney Bill.  “I understand.  You was always like that.  You haven’t come any nearer finding your ’igh-born parents?”—­there was a twinkle in his eyes—­“’ave yer?”

“I’m not going to bother any more about them, whoever they are,” said Paul, lighting a cigarette.  “When I was a kid I used to dream that they would find me and do everything for me.  Now I’m a man with experience of life, I find that I’ve got to do everything for myself.  And by George!”—­he thumped the bar and smiled the radiant smile of the young Apollo—­“I’m going to do it.”

Barney Bill took off his Luke’s iron crown of a billycock hat and scratched his cropped and grizzled head.  “How old are you, sonny?”