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. The one profession, the one decent profession, I mean, for a woman—except the stage— is teaching, and there we trample on one another. ‘Now then, missie. When I think of those ateliers of ours, the art jargon, the decadents with their flamboyant talk I long for a twoedged sword and a minute of Divinity. There was a great splash of blood upon it, her hand was all wet and sticky. She wanted to kiss his feet. There was only one small grated window in this hold, which admitted but little light. He shrugged and, to Gerald’s relief, made to leave at last. ‘Small wonder in a way that he found hisself consolation elsewhere.
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