He turned his eyes and stared at Miss Garvice like one who wakes from a reverie, and then got up and strolled down the laboratory toward his refuge, the preparation-room. 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. But about his unknown rival he was acutely curious. For all that, it is folly. The crowd began to separate as it fell into the theater. He passed, and came loitering back and stood beside her, silently looking into her face.
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