Then he flung up his arms wildly and laughed aloud and strode about the room in exultation.  All he had hoped for and worked for was an exit of fantastic and barren glory.  After which, the Deluge—­ anything.  He had never dreamed of this sudden blaze of Fortune.  Now, indeed, did the Great Things to which he was born lie to his hand.  Queerly but surely Destiny was guiding him upward.  In every way Chance had worked for him.  His poverty had been a cloak of honour; the thrice-blessed pawn ticket a patent of nobility.  His kingdom lay before him, its purple mountains looming through the mists of dawn.  And he would enter into it as the Awakener of England.  He stood thrilled.  The ambition was no longer the wild dream of yesterday.  From the heart of the great affairs in which he would have his being he could pluck his awakening instrument.  The world seemed suddenly to become real.  And in the midst of it was this wonderful, beautiful, dearest lady with her keen insight, her delicate sympathy, her warm humanity.  With some extravagance he consecrated himself to her service.

After a while he sat down soberly and took from his pocket the cornelian heart which his first goddess had given him twelve years ago.  What had become of her?  He did not even know her name.  But what happiness, he thought, to meet her in the plenitude of his greatness and show her the heart, and say, “I owe it all to you!” To her alone of mortals would he reveal himself.

And then he thought of Barney Bill, who had helped him on his way; of Rowlatt, good fellow, who was dead; and of Jane, whom he had lost.  He wished he could write to Jane and tell her the wonderful news.  She would understand. . . .  Well, well!  It was time for bed.  He rose and switched off the lights and went to his room.  But as he walked through the great, noiseless house, he felt, in spite of Fortune’s bounty, a loneliness of soul; also irritation at having lost Jane.  What a letter he could have written to her!  He could not say the things with which his heart was bursting to anyone on earth but Jane.  Why had he lost Jane?  The prospective Awakener of England wanted Jane.

CHAPTER XI

One morning Paul, with a clump of papers in his hand, entered his pleasant private room at Drane’s Court, stepped briskly to the long Cromwellian table placed in the window bay, and sat down to his correspondence.

It was gusty outside, as could be perceived by the shower of yellow beech leaves that slanted across the view; but indoors a great fire flaming up the chimney, a Turkey carpet fading into beauty, rich eighteenth century mezzotints on the walls, reposeful leather-covered chairs and a comfortable bookcase gave an atmosphere of warmth and coziness.  Paul lit a cigarette and attacked a pile of unopened letters.  At last he came to an envelope, thick and faintly scented, bearing a crown on the flap.  He opened it and read: