Miss Klegg raised the question of women’s suffrage, and he set himself to provoke a duel between her and Miss Garvice. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. 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. . ‘And then you will be obliged to remain in France,’ she pointed out. “Listen, Annabel,” he said hoarsely. He saw that his words were falling upon dull ears. Her eyes threatened to leak tears, she blinked. Everybody who’s going to develop into a woman. She would rend him limb from limb like a fiend if only she could move. “I love this warm end of summer more than words can tell,” he said. That did not sound like the name the young man had offered in the tower of the water-clock.
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