The Wastrel wiped the blood from his forehead. In a moment the brisk evening breeze caught the lank canvas and bellied it taut. One could go to him and tell him one loved him. It was necessary to think, and think quickly. But, finding the cellar-door open, concluded he had got out that way. ’ ‘Who’s bleeding to death?’ demanded Trodger. Here he was preparing to leap over the hedge into the fields on the left, when he was intercepted by two horsemen, who, hearing the shouts, rode up and struck at him with the butt-ends of their heavy riding-whips. . The road from Surbiton and Epsom ran under the arch, and, like a bright fungoid growth in the ditch, there was now appearing a sort of fourth estate of little redand-white rough-cast villas, with meretricious gables and very brassy windowblinds. . But no matter how you phrase it, the end is the same. “It’s a period of crude views and crude work,” said Mr. Time enough to do so when she has her affairs settled—if she can settle them.
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