He was the son of this violent and pathetic fanatic, this ex-convict; he had his eyes, his refined face; perhaps he inherited from him the artistic temperament--he recalled grimly the daubs on the man's walls, and his purblind gropings toward artistic self-expression; and all this--the Southern handsomeness, and Southern love of colour, had come from his Sicilian grandmother, the nameless drab, with bright yellow handkerchief over swarthy brows, turning the handle of a barrel organ in the London streets.

Instinct had been right in its promptings to assume an Italian name; but the irony of it was of the quality that makes for humour in hell.

And his very Christian name--Paul--the exotic name which Polly Kegworthy would not have given to a brat of hers--was but a natural one for a Silas to give his son, a Silas born of generations of evangelical peasants.

His eyes rested on the photograph of his Princess.

She, first of all, was gone with the Vision.