The young ladies in the somewhat mixed society amongst which he moved neither satisfied his taste nor appealed in any way to his affections. "There," cried Jackson, closing the book and rising, "that'll do. I should as soon think of trusting a woman. 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. Anna suddenly leaned forward and looked around her. Wish SHE”—he indicated Miss Klegg’s back with a nod—“was at the bottom of the sea. She had exposed the real story behind Peters tragedy, that dark, handsome Chuck had killed himself by leaving the car running in the garage, not from a “heart attack” as 111 claimed the party line. She propped a pillow against his padded headboard and sat herself into a stiff upright position, legs expertly crossed. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. His perception of her personal beauty deepened and quickened with each encounter. The girl was in the game now, and that narrowed the circle. Her body was perpetually tanned, despite the approach of winter.
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