The time soon came when the prospective Awakener of England awoke to the fact that he must fare forth into the sleeping land with but a guinea in his pocket.  The future did not dismay him, for he knew now that his dreams came true.  But he was terribly anxious, more anxious than ever, to leave Drane’s Court with all the prestige of the prospective Awakener.  Now, this final scene of the production could not be worked for a guinea.  There were golden tips to servants, there was the first-class railway fare.  Once in London—­he could pawn things to keep him going, and a Bloomsbury landlady with whom he had lodged, since the loss of Jane, would give him a fortnight or three weeks’ credit.  But he had to get to London-to get there gloriously; so that when the turn of Fortune’s wheel enabled him to seek again these wonderful friends in the aristocratic sphere to which he belonged, he could come among them untarnished, the conquering prince.  But that miserable guinea!  He racked his brains.  There was his gold watch and chain, a symbol, to his young mind, of high estate.  When he had bought it there crossed his mind the silly thought of its signification of the infinite leagues that lay between him and Billy Goodge.  He could pawn it for ten pounds—­it would be like pawning his heart’s blood—­but where?  Not in Morebury, even supposing there was a pawnbroker’s in the place.  He had many friends in his profession, scattered up and down the land.  But he had created round himself the atmosphere of the young magnifico.  It was he who had lent, others who had borrowed.  Rothschild or Rockefeller inviting any of them to lend him money would have produced less jaw-dropping amazement.  Even if he sent his pride flying and appealed to the most friendly and generous, he shrank from the sacrifice he would call upon the poor devil to make.  There was only his beautiful and symbolic watch and chain.  The nearest great town where he could be sure of finding a pawnbroker was distant an hour’s train journey.

So on the day before that for which, in spite of hospitable protestations on the part of Colonel and Miss Winwood, he had fixed his departure, he set forth on the plea of private business, and returned with a heavier pocket and a heavier heart.  He had been so proud, poor boy, of the gold insignia across his stomach.  He had had a habit of fingering it lovingly.  Now it was gone.  He felt naked—­ in a curious way dishonoured.  There only remained his cornelian talisman.  He got back in time for tea and kept his jacket closely buttoned.  But in the evening he had perforce to appear stark and ungirt—­in those days Fashion had not yet decreed, as it does now, the absence of watchchain on evening dress—­and Paul shambled into the drawing-room like a guest without a wedding garment.  There were still a few people staying in the house—­the shooting party proper, and Lady Chudley, had long since gone—­but enough remained to be a social microcosm for Paul.  Every eye was upon him.  In spite of himself, his accusing hand went fingering the inanity of his waistcoat front.  He also fingered, with a horrible fascination, the dirty piece of card that took the place of his watch in his pocket.