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CHAPTER XVII. “To the best of my belief,” she said, with quiet dignity, “I have never seen either of you before in my life. She put down the sketch-books and apparatus she had brought with her, pulled out her stool, and sat down. This was not the sort of confession which he had been expecting. Spurlock slumped in his chair, weak and empty. It was clear that he meant to kiss her before she exited the car. 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's a base, deceitful, tyrannical, hoary-headed libertine—that's what he is. Then, as Ramage readjusted himself in a corner, he remarked: “These young people shoot up, Stanley.
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