Gerald’s judgement was borne out a moment later. He was a civil servant of some standing, and after a previous conversation upon aesthetics of a sententious, nebulous, and sympathetic character, he had sent her a small volume, which he described as the fruits of his leisure and which was as a matter of fact rather carefully finished verse. “You must do more than think of it,” he urged. Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west veranda. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. Twelve years ago! It is an awful retrospect. Things happened frequently over here that wouldn't happen in the States once in a hundred years. “What the devil do you mean by coming for me like that?” Ennison exclaimed, glowering down upon him.
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