Don’t take my word for it though. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. She was standing before a window, against the background of the rain-burdened April sky. As the Wastrel played, Spurlock knew that the man saw the inevitable end—death by drink; saw the glory of the things he had thrown away, the past, once so full of promise. He heard the panting of the donkey-engine, then the slithering of the anchor chains. The air was sharp and bracing, and the leaves which had taken their autumnal tints were falling from the trees. “I believe that you would find her in some respects curiously altered.
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