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. Her aunt had secretly sent on to Ann Veronica some new warm underclothing, a dozen pairs of stockings, and her last winter’s jacket, but the dear lady had overlooked those boots. Here you are, young, sound, with a heart that will recover in no time, provided you keep liquor out of it. ‘I thought it must be you,’ cried the woman. The new and the old cancelled out; his daughters became quasi-independent dependents—which is absurd. “Thank you,” he said, “for letting me back. ‘Oh, Jacques, I cannot forgive myself!’ ‘Never you fret, miss,’ he uttered at once in a faint voice.
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