Stanley poured wine. They could not go on. Who was he to tread on her dreams? She had heroworshipped an unscrupulous adventurer, who had not hesitated to impose on her youth and her ignorance. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance. Spurlock's vision was oddly of the past. He spent the remainder of the afternoon looking for a friend whom he found at last in the billiard room of one of the smaller clubs to which he belonged. "In the hall," replied Charcam. And let us go on with our evening. In all this world there was no sacred ground that said to her: Return! She was of all human beings the most lonely.
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