You must forgive the poet’s license I take. Lucy looked at her reflection with a measure of awe. 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. When she finished her last cadence, Carolyn and Thomas begged her to play encores. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh. He’ll do. “She’s proclaimed herself queen of the school. Another picture slid across her vision. She recognized him as the man who had blundered into the wrong room. "Harkye, Sir," rejoined Darrell; "one word before I move. "As it's getting late, and the porter may be gone to bed," he observed; "I'll take the pass-key, and let myself in. She crooked her finger.
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