I am tired, and I want to be alone. I’d take it— forgive me if I seem a little urgent—as a sort of proof of friendliness. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. Thing's upset you a bit. "Ay, murder him, if you like the term," returned Wild. "You will be wanting your broth, Hoddy," she said. 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.
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