CHAPTER VI.
PAUL'S model-self being dead, he regarded it with complacency and set his foot on it, little doubting that it was another stepping-stone.
He spoke loftily of his independence.
"But how are you going to earn your living ?" asked Jane, the practical.
"I shall follow one of the arts," Paul replied.

"I think I am a poet, but I might be a painter or a musician." "You do sing and play lovely," said Jane.
He had recently purchased from a pawnshop a second-hand mandoline, which he had mastered by the aid of a sixpenny handbook, and he would play on it accompaniments to sentimental ballads which he sang in a high baritone.
"I'll not choose yet awhile," said Paul, disregarding the tribute.
"Something will happen.

The 'moving finger' will point--" "What moving finger ?" "The finger of Destiny," said Paul.
And, as the superb youth predicted, something did happen a day or two afterwards.
They were walking in Regent Street, and stopped, as was their wont, before a photographer's window where portraits of celebrities were exposed to view.

Paul loved this window, had loved it from the moment of discovery, a couple of years before.

It was a Temple of Fame.