PAUL FINDS HIS WAY.
Slowly, surely, steadily I climbed, putting aside all dreams, paying strict attention to business. Often my other self, little Paul of the sad eyes, would seek to lure me from my work. But for my vehement determination never to rest for a moment till I had purchased back my honesty, my desire--growing day by day, till it became almost a physical hunger--to feel again the pressure of Norah's strong white hand in mine, he might possibly have succeeded. Heaven only knows what then he might have made of me: politician, minor poet, more or less able editor, hampered by convictions--something most surely of but little service to myself. Now and again, with a week to spare--my humour making holiday, nothing to be done but await patiently its return--I would write stories for
