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 &quot;Just a week. But I shan't go anywhere after this. I shall renounce the world.&quot; He glanced smilingly at the festal tea-table and the embowered desk. &quot;When I next appear, it will either be with my heel on Paul's neck—poor old Paul—or else—or else—being dragged lifeless from the arena!&quot;

His mother nervously took up the laugh with which he ended. &quot;Oh, not lifeless,&quot; she said.

His face clouded. &quot;Well, maimed for life, then,&quot; he muttered. Mrs. Peyton made no answer. She knew how much hung on the possibility of his winning the competition which for weeks past had engrossed him. It was a design for the new museum of sculpture, for which the city had recently voted half a million. Dick's taste ran naturally to the grandiose, and the erection of public buildings had always been the object of his ambition.