At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard. Voilà tout. 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. Her figure, though slight, had all the fulness of health; and her complexion—still pale, but without its former sickly cast,—contrasted agreeably, by its extreme fairness, with the dark brows and darker lashes that shaded eyes which, if they had lost some of their original brilliancy, had gained infinitely more in the soft and chastened lustre that replaced it. "Oh, I've read that!" Spurlock had heard distinctly enough all of this odd conversation; but until the spinster's reference to the family album, no phrase had been sufficient in strength of attraction to break the trend of his own unhappy thoughts. “I WILL be arrested! I WON’T go home!” the little old lady was screaming over and over again. Some one had once, in his hearing, called him a prig. He had quite enough to see to and worry about in the City without their doing things. So she married him.
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