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 In a sense his myopia was less ridiculous than my idealism. He at any rate was under no illusions as to his inherent princeliness, whereas I most whole-souledly was. And my belief in his inherent princeliness, my devout, mad, piteous belief in it superseded and gradually strangled my belief in my singleness of purpose, in my—God save the mark—genius. He considered himself a prince because he was the son, the grandson, the great-grandson, the nephew, the cousin of kings, and for no other reason. For me he would have been a prince had I met him mounting guard at the palace gates instead of mingling with guests of State. Whereas had I come to him unheralded, with nothing but my belief in myself to support whatever grace God had given me and a French dressmaker had accentuated, who knows"

Aunt Verona's step cut short the surreptitious perusal, and Paul glued his eyes on his task. The ciphers swam, and the exercise became abracadabra. He wondered and wondered, until the mystery and the glamour emanating from the end of Aunt Verona's stubby pencil became a positive pain. His cheeks were flushed and his head ached. On the blurred page of his arithmetic, in the softly yellow circle of light made by the kerosene lamp, he saw a youthful version of Aunt Verona gowned in "white samite, mystic, wonderful," curtsying to a blonde youth in gold braid, with ribbons and medals on his breast and a gleaming sword at his side. He saw her pale and pretty, with the faint, serious smile modifying the austerity of her face, sitting at a long piano, while in curved ranks, beyond shiny spaces of floor, under millions of glittering prisms, flanked by mirrors and marble columns, in a warm flood of perfume, potentates and bejewelled ladies listened spellbound to the fabulous strains of the Liszt sonata. He saw the arms fall away from the piano, he saw the young artist lift a red rose from the lid and carry it to her lips, he heard complimentary mur-