" ***** "To me, you dirty blackguard!" cried Spurlock, flinging aside his helmet. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. But we must not anticipate the course of events. 8. There he sat, cheerfully friendly in his sex’s freedom—the man she loved, the one man she cared should unlock the way to the wide world for her imprisoned feminine possibilities, and he seemed regardless that she stifled under his eyes; he made a jest of all this passionate insurgence of the souls of women against the fate of their conditions. He delayed the blow till the fortunate conjuncture was past. For the present, he murmured his farewells, and turning, caught Hilary’s eye and walked away, crossing the ballroom to move into the less opulent, and less crowded, saloon next door where servants were dispensing refreshments.
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