He would know the truth then once and for all. She had to do her thinking at home—under inspection. “It was a phase,” she said. “And then they are swollen up and inflamed and drunken with matter. Spurlock. You can enjoy him and then drink him up. She ought to have been disposed to faint and scream at all these happenings; she ought to have maintained a front of outraged dignity to veil the sinking of her heart. A few feet away, across the low vases of pink and white roses, sat Annabel, more beautiful to-night perhaps than ever before in her life.
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