It had seemed to her that life might be very good indeed with his kindliness and sacrifice about her. Much too formal for a cosy chat between old friends. The odd creak was not to be avoided in an old house such as this. It was the sing-song girl idea, magnified many diameters. Either she had been seen, or they were seeking the air. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. It was a serene and charming evening, and twilight was gently stealing over the face of the country. On the day he carried the manuscript to Copeley's he brought back a packet of letters, magazines, and newspapers. But his treasured dream lay shattered at his feet.
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