’ ‘That’s fortunate,’ murmured Lucilla. As the Wastrel rushed, Spurlock sidestepped, swept the ball into his hand, set himself and threw it. She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended. A crisis had been reached, and she was almost glad it had been reached. For a big-bellied glass is the palette I use, And the choicest of wine is my colour; And I find that my nose takes the mellowest hues The fuller I fill it—the fuller! IV.
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