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. McClintock, striking a match to relight his cigar, broke the spell. I have never loved you. The slow stars circled on to the moment of their meeting. He never asked questions; he never addressed his companions; and frequently he took off his cap and wiped his forehead. Pole coolies came joggling along with bobbing blocks of jade—white jade, splashed and veined with translucent emerald green. "I've made no distinction between you, hitherto," answered Wood; "nor shall I do so, unless I'm compelled.
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