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. The tears were welling over now, but her voice was steady. “Quite unusually cold for the time of year,” he said. He was draining a glass, and as he set it down he shuddered. Upon this grateful animal she lavished that affection which was subtly repelled by its lawful object. She felt her heartbeat accelerate until it was pounding her chest. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. Oh! you haven't got the key—then I must have it, I suppose. " "That's frank enough," the doctor admitted astonishedly. And Mother trusted him. They did not spend most days together.
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