“In a very shabby corner of Bohemia, Paul, where, in the streets, every vagrant wind makes whirlpools of stray papers--that shuffle by--like the damned restless whispering ghosts of rejected poems--or other stammerings that are the inky outpourings of broken literary careers.... Not at all the sort of place that you would like, old boy.... But, Paul”--he looked round the room--“you muttered something--about--a chicken--just now----” Paul laughed--a little embarrassedly; and rang the bell: “You’d like to take off your overcoat?” he asked. Anthony laughed drily: “Tsh! Paul!--we’ll avoid delicate subjects, please. But since I am in the confessional, I ought to add that I haven’t a coat or waistcoat. Misfortune makes us acquainted with strange underclothes.” Paul Pangbutt smiled; but a frown followed close upon the smile, and blackened it. He was possessed of that peculiar egoism which, at the sight of the pitiful, is but roused to a delicious self-pity. “Ah,” said he; and a little suspicion of patronage slipped into his manner, as it does when we are content to comfort our friends with phrases--“I have not forgotten what makeshifts were in Paris--before I made my mark.... I always detested frayed cuffs.” A funny little smile played about the lips of the seated man; he nodded grimly: “H’m, yes. Having no shirt at all has _that_ advantage--the cuffs do not fray.” Pangbutt’s scowl came flitting back: “Yes; I know.... You and the others always made a jest of the disgusting pinch and meanness of it all----” The weary man nodded: “Ah, yes, it’s true,” said he, and he sighed--“the road was very weary--very dusty--sometimes--in Paris.” The other strode vigorously up and down the room, with that vigour that had set him on the road to success: his eyes were fixed within: “But _I_ determined at the first chance I got to shake off that dust of the students’ quarter of Paris. I detested the untidiness of them all--the leanness and the grim jest of it--and the everlasting loans that were never paid.” Anthony’s face, as he watched the impatient striding from under his brows, listening to the triumphant note of success, flickered with a grim smile. Paul Pangbutt had not been exactly notorious for the lending of loans. It came to him that his quest for help was not going to be an easy one. The other suddenly came to a halt, and looked keenly at Anthony where he sat; remembering that this brooding man was the real subject of talk, he added: “But--are things really as low with you as you say, Anthony?... You always made a jest of hard work.” Anthony laughed sadly: “And sometimes we got a good deal of hard work out of a jest; eh, Paul?” The smile died out of his eyes as soon as he had spoken: “No,” he added, “there’s no jest in it--unless the gods laugh at misfortune.... I am about at the end of things.” Pangbutt assumed the fatherly note: