Part 10 (1/2)

He spoke loftily of his independence.

”But how are you going to earn your living?” asked Jane, the practical.

”I shall follow one of the arts,” Paul replied. ”I think I am a poet, but I might be a painter or a musician.”

”You do sing and play lovely,” said Jane.

He had recently purchased from a p.a.w.nshop a second-hand mandoline, which he had mastered by the aid of a sixpenny handbook, and he would play on it accompaniments to sentimental ballads which he sang in a high baritone.

”I'll not choose yet awhile,” said Paul, disregarding the tribute.

”Something will happen. The 'moving finger' will point--”

”What moving finger?”

”The finger of Destiny,” said Paul.

And, as the superb youth predicted, something did happen a day or two afterwards.

They were walking in Regent Street, and stopped, as was their wont, before a photographer's window where portraits of celebrities were exposed to view. Paul loved this window, had loved it from the moment of discovery, a couple of years before. It was a Temple of Fame. The fact of your portrait being exhibited, with your style and t.i.tle printed below, marked you as one of the great ones of the earth. Often he had said to Jane: ”When I am there you'll be proud, won't you?”

And she had looked up to him adoringly and wondered why he was not there already.

It was Paul's habit to scrutinize the faces of those who had achieved greatness, Archbishops, Field-Marshals, Cabinet Ministers, and to speculate on the quality of mind that had raised them to their high estate; and often he would s.h.i.+ft his position, so as to obtain a glimpse of his own features in the plate-gla.s.s window, and compare them with those of the famous. Thus he would determine that he had the brow of the divine, the nose of the statesman and the firm lips of the soldier. It was a stimulating pastime. He was born to great things; but to what great things he knew not. The sphere in which his glory should be fulfilled was as yet hidden in the mists of time.

But this morning, instead of roving over the ill.u.s.trious gallery, his eye caught and was fascinated by a single portrait. He stood staring at it for a long time, lost in the thrill of thought.

At last Jane touched his arm. ”What are you looking at?”

He pointed. ”Do you see that?”

”Yes. It's--” She named an eminent actor, then in the heyday of his fame, of whom legend hath it that his photographs were bought in thousands by love-lorn maidens who slept with them beneath their pillows.

Paul drew her away from the little knot of idlers cl.u.s.tered round the window. ”There's nothing that man can do that I can't do,” said Paul.

”You're twenty times better looking,” said Jane.

”I have more intelligence,” said Paul.

”Of course,” said Jane.

”I'm going to be an actor,” said Paul.

”Oh!” cried Jane in sudden rapture. Then her st.u.r.dy common-sense a.s.serted itself. ”But can you act?”

”I'm sure I could, if I tried. You've only got to have the genius to start with and the rest is easy.”

As she did not dare question his genius, she remained silent.

”I'm going to be an actor,” said he, ”and when I'm not acting I shall be a poet.”

In spite of her adoration Jane could not forbear a shaft of raillery.