One must be twenty to realize the tragedy of it.  Dans un grenier qu’on est bien a vingt ans!  To be twenty, in a garret, with the freedom and the joy of it!  Yes; the dear poet was right.  In those “brave days” the poignancy of life comes not in the garret, but in the palace.

To-morrow, with his jacket buttoned, he could make his exit from Drane’s Court in the desired splendour—­scattering largesse to menials and showing to hosts the reflected glow of the golden prospects before him; but for this evening the glory had departed.  Besides, it was his last evening there, and London’s welcome tomorrow would be none too exuberant.

The little party was breaking up, the ladies retiring for the night, and the men about to accompany Colonel Winwood to the library for a final drink and cigarette.  Paul shook hands with Miss Winwood.

“Good night—­and good-bye,” she said, “if you take the early train.  But must you really go to-morrow?”

“I must,” said Paul.

“I hope we’ll very soon be seeing you again.  Give me your address.”  She moved to a bridge table and caught up the marking block, which she brought to him.  “Now I’ve forgotten the pencil.”

“I’ve got one,” said Paul, and impulsively thrusting his fingers into his waistcoat pocket, flicked them out with the pencil.  But he also flicked out the mean-looking card of which he had been hatefully conscious all the evening.  The Imp of Mischance arranged that as Miss Winwood stood close by his side, it should fall, unperceived by him, on the folds of her grey velvet train.  He wrote the Bloomsbury address and handed her the leaf torn from the pad.  She folded it up, moved away, turning back to smile.  As she turned she happened to look downward; then she stooped and picked the card from her dress.  A conjecture of horror smote Paul.  He made a step forward and stretched out his hand; but not before she had instinctively glanced first at the writing and then at his barren waistcoat.  She repressed a slight gasp, regarding him with steady, searching eyes.

His dark face flushed crimson as he took the accursed thing, desiring no greater boon from Heaven than instant death.  He felt sick with humiliation.  The brightly lit room grew black.  It was in a stupor of despair that he heard her say, “Wait a bit here, till I’ve got rid of these people.”

He stumbled away and stood on the bearskin rug before the fireplace, while she joined the lingering group by the door.  The two or three minutes were an eternity of agony to Paul.  He had lost his great game.

Miss Winwood shut the door and came swiftly to him and laid her hand on his arm.  Paul hung his head and looked into the fire.  “My poor boy!” she said very tenderly.  “What are you going to do with yourself?”

If it had not been for the diabolical irony of the mishap he would have answered with his gay flourish.  But now he could not so answer.  Boyish, hateful tears stood in his eyes and, in spite of anguished effort of will, threatened to fall.  He continued to look into the fire, so that she should not see them.  “I shall go on as I always have done,” he said as stoutly as he could.