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. “Let me show you something. "Come down stairs directly, and let your mother look at your wrist. ” “Why?” she asked. “You’re a biologist, aren’t you?” He began to talk of his own impressions of biology as a commonplace magazine reader who had to get what he could from the monthly reviews, and was glad to meet with any information from nearer the fountainhead. “You can’t imagine,” Sydney exclaimed, “that the people downstairs will be such drivelling asses as to believe piffle like that. But was that enough? Dim, formless suspicions of something more vital wandered about his mind.
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