The eyes left him, searching beside the chair for her cane. This morning he heard voices—McClintock's and the Wastrel's. She pulled away from him, placing her fingers on his lips for a moment. He looked melancholy enough, it is true. To-morrow he might be sorry; but to-day, this hour! She rose, not quickly, but with a dignity which only accentuated her beauty. His aunt, here at McClintock's? It was unbelievable. ‘Wait a minute, though. “But what can one do?” asked Ann Veronica. ‘Who’d believe me? And I’d have to tell my part in it all, too. Spurling. ‘You wish to die?’ ‘Not in the least. Even to my own brother—if I had one—I could not tell everything, and you, although you are so kind, you are almost a stranger, aren’t you?” “No, no!” he protested. ” “Let us say that Café Maston, in the Boulevard des Italiennes, at half-past seven then,” he decided.
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