Anna, who had sung the first verse of her song, looked around the house, a little surprised at the absence of the applause which had never yet failed her. She did not see the metal pole swing toward the back of her skull, nor did she feel her own blood spoiling her light hair after the dull crack of metal broke her flesh. “That young man was giving a luncheon party to a dozen friends at the Café de Paris to-day. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. ‘Only perhaps I can more readily do so if you will put down that pistol. "What the devil makes you out so late? And what has happened to you, man, eh?—you seem in a queer plight.
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