“I’ve got to earn my living just like you,” said Paul, greatly flattered by the artless tribute to his aristocratic personality and not offended by the professional censure which he knew to be just.  “I’ve tried all sorts of other things-music, painting, poetry, novel-writing—­but none of them has come off.”

“Your people don’t make you an allowance?”

“I’ve no people living,” said Paul, with a smile—­and when Paul smiled it was as if Eros’s feathers had brushed the cheek of a Praxitelean Hermes; and then with an outburst half sincere, half braggart—­“I’ve been on my own ever since I was thirteen.”

Wilmer regarded him wearily.  “The missus and I have always thought you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth.”

“So I was,” Paul declared from his innermost conviction.  “But,” he laughed, “I lost it before my teeth came and I could get a grip on it.”

“Do you mean to say,” exclaimed Wilmer, “that you’re not doing this for fun?”

“Fun?” cried Paul.  “Fun?  Do you call this comic?” He waved his hand comprehensively, indicating the decayed pink-and-purple wall-paper, the ragged oil-cloth on the floor, the dingy window with its dingier outlook, the rickety deal wash-stand with the paint peeling off, a horrible clothless tray on a horrible splotchy chest of drawers, containing the horrible scraggy remains of a meal.  “Do you think I would have this if I could command silken sloth?  I long like hell, old chap, for silken sloth, and if I could get it, you wouldn’t see me here.”

Wilmer rose and stretched out his hand.  “I’m sorry, dear boy,” said he.  “The wife and I thought it didn’t very much matter to you.  We always thought you were a kind of young swell doing it for amusement and experience—­and because you never put on side, we liked you.”

Paul rose from the bed and put his hand on Wilmer’s shoulder.  “And now you’re disappointed?”

He laughed and his eyes twinkled humorously.  His vagabond life had taught him some worldly wisdom.  The sallow and ineffectual man looked confused.  His misery was beyond the relief of smiles.

“We’re all in the same boat, old chap,” said Paul, “except that I’m alone and haven’t got wife and kids to look after.”

“Good-bye, my boy,” said Wilmer.  “Better luck next time.  But chuck it, if you can.”

Paul held his hand for a while.  Then his left hand dived into his waistcoat pocket and, taking the place of his right, thrust three sovereigns into Wilmer’s palm.  “For the kiddies,” said he.

Wilmer looked at the coins in his palm, and then at Paul, and the tears spurted.  “I can’t, my boy.  You must be as broke as any of us—­you—­half salary—­no, my boy, I can’t.  I’m old enough to be your father.  It’s damned good of you—­but it’s my one pride left—­the pride of both of us—­the missus and me—­that we’ve never borrowed money—­”

“But it isn’t borrowed, you silly ass,” cried Paul cheerfully.  “It’s just your share of the spoils, such as they are.  I wish to God it was more.”  With both hands he clasped the thin, ineffectual fingers over the coins and pushed the man’ with his young strength out of the door.  “It’s for the kiddies.  Give them my love,” he cried, and slammed the door and locked it from the inside.