Ann Veronica readjusted her chin on her hand. As the Wastrel rushed, Spurlock sidestepped, swept the ball into his hand, set himself and threw it. The face that looked down upon Ann Veronica was full of amiable intention. He was angry. The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes. The young lady—if she had come in here at all—had vanished. Peste, where was her handkerchief? She remembered then that it had been lost in the struggle with Gerald. She knew it. "Eh-day! what's this?" cried Wood, looking up from beneath his spectacles. "Come! I see the storm has blown over," cried Winifred, brightening up. An electric light flashed out from the wall. “We are Mr.
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