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 By the time Paul had made his way as far north as Siena, his funds were at a point which made imperative the most rigid economy. Having no head for figures he could not account for the fact that he had, in less than five years, disposed of a sum that should, under wise manipulation, have provided him with an income for life. For life! He smiled at the phrase. What with incessant coughing, perspiring through the night, waking with shiny eyes, and funking every steep hill—the handful of francs still in one's possession might last a "lifetime."

He thought of the young sailor who had hoarded his savings, year in and year out, for the sake of a holiday in Germany. Paradoxically, in those days he had not known the value of money. Now he knew. Money existed for the purchasing of one's ideals—whether the ideals consisted in fine raiment or the subsidizing of needy visionaries. Paul had had money to spend, and spent it. Not a sou had he begrudged. Not a purchase did he regret. Not even Germaine, for she had taught him something, if only the extent of his own fatuity.

He arrived in Paris on a rainy day of September, 1924. He had spent a sleepless night on the wooden bench of a third-class compartment, and caught a fresh chill from the bad air and the draughts. By the time he had collected his scanty possessions from the entrepôt and moved into a fifth-floor lodging in a dingy street behind the Gare Montparnasse, he was in the grip of an illness which he knew to be dangerous. Of all his former acquaintances there was no one he cared to send for, no one he could trust to do the right things, without asking questions or offering advice. He craved companionship, yet he was relieved to think that no one could find him in this retreat. For two weeks he lay in bed obliged to submit to the attention of a fumbling old physician whom