What else could one say? I left him to suppose—a registry perhaps. Spurling, you're a witness to the bet. Why should she? she asked rebelliously. But it's so wonderful to watch you! Whenever you have written something beautiful, your face shows it. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. And the woollen-draper departed. She was inclined to think that perhaps for a girl the converse of his method was the case; an older man, a man beyond the range of anything “nonsensical,” was, perhaps, the most interesting sort of friend one could meet.
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