There was a distant ring of a bell. Anthony hurriedly folded his handkerchief over the scraps of food, and thrust them into his pocket. He strode towards Pangbutt as though to say something--hesitated--he could not bring himself to ask for money. There was a second peal at the bell. “I must be off,” he said--“I hear visitors.” And waving his hand to Pangbutt he stepped quickly to the doorway. When he reached the door he again hesitated--shook his head--and letting himself quietly out, closed the door gently after him. Paul Pangbutt was alone. He stood brooding. His lips moved into a complacent smile: “I believe my success awed him,” he said. CHAPTER VII _Wherein Ambition shrinks from looking down the Ladder_ The brooding man was still standing in the middle of the great studio when the butler entered, with catlike tread, and handed him a card on a silver salver. Pangbutt took the card without looking at it. “Take away the tray, Dukes,” he said. He pointed with a trace of disgust to the broken meats, and, as he watched the silent servant gathering up the relics of the hurried feast, all that shabby Bohemian life, the very thought of which he had banished for years, came flooding back with disgust across the threshold of his splendid home.... How he loathed it!... But--the strange irony of it all! That the brilliant ones of the time of his pupillage should have gone under!... He himself had been the commonplace one, the near to dullard--he smiled--but here was he, and there were they!... Strange how the promise of youth is unfulfilled!... The Baddlesmeres gone under! God! they of all people!... Whilst for him? Fame, stretching out a vast glittering prospect as he topped the hill of endeavour.... He had left no smallest effort unmade to advance his own interests--and he stood at last in view of the promised land where hang the glittering prizes. By heavens! they were within hand’s reach---- He was roused by the butler’s voice, as the old servant opened the door to depart: “And this gentleman downstairs, sir?” said he. “Ah, yes.” Pangbutt glanced at the card in his fingers: “Eustace Lovegood!” he murmured in surprise. “H’m--he sends up his card--evidently all goes well with Eustace Lovegood!” He turned to Dukes: “All right--show him up.” The old servant vanished, the door stealthily closing after him. Pangbutt’s face was scarred with a self-satisfied smirk: “They find me in rather altered circumstances.” There was no mistaking the comfort of the reflection. He was about to stride towards the fireplace and take up a baronial attitude, but put his hands behind his back instead, and stared at the floor, pondering. He tried to rouse his memory: “But--let me see--Lovegood made rather a mark? What was it?” The door opened, and Eustace Lovegood strode tragically into the room, the old black cloak swinging at his back. Pangbutt turned: “O lord!” he growled into his beard, “another of the failures!”