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. She still had her letter of credit. But once I started, Forever Fifteen seemed to fly out of me like a bat out of Hell, virtually writing itself. Instead of which they walked sharply. “One would think I had said nothing about the matter. The study seemed absolutely unaltered, there was still the same lamp with a little chip out of the shade, still the same gas fire, still the same bundle of blue and white papers, it seemed, with the same pink tape about them, at the elbow of the arm-chair, still the same father. Restraining with an effort his intense curiosity, he talked of general subjects only, trying his best to entertain her. The entire city seemed to exist for beauty and art alone. “A glass slipped from the table,” he explained.
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