The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. Coolly and gingerly, she kissed it as it stood at its hard angle from his body. He did not look up, so he did not know that in her other hand she held a glass of wine. Any one less courageous than himself would have abandoned the attempt from a conviction of its utter hopelessness; but, though it might for a moment damp his ardour, it could not deter him. This way, Sir Rowland. It was Annabel’s. I can now give myself to God utterly; no human emotion will ever be shuttling in between.
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