"You have a genius for torment!" Paul Overt exclaimed; but taking his companion's hand in farewell as a mitigation of this judgment.
"Poor child, I do bother you. Try, try, then! I think your chances are good, and you'll win a great prize."
Paul held the other's hand a minute; he looked into his face. "No, I am an artist—I can't help it!"
"Ah, show it then!" St. George broke out—"let me see before I die the thing I most want, the thing I yearn for—a life in which the passion is really intense. If you can be rare, don't fail of it! Think what it is—how it counts—how it lives!" They had moved to the door and St. George had closed both his own hands over that of his companion. Here they paused again and Paul Overt ejaculated—"I want to live!"
"In what sense?"
"In the greatest sense."
"Well then, stick to it—see it through."
"With your sympathy—your help?"
"Count on that—you'll be a great figure to me. Count on my highest appreciation, my devotion. You'll give me satisfaction!—if that has any weight with you." And as Paul appeared still to waver, St. George added: "Do you remember what you said to me at Summersoft?"
"Something infatuated, no doubt!"
"'I'll do anything in the world you tell me.' You said that."
"And you hold me to it?"
"Ah, what am I?" sighed the master, shaking his head.
"Lord, what things I shall have to do!" Paul almost moaned as he turned away.
