” She turned and fitted the latchkey into the door. The Wastrel, his eyes full of humorous evil, stood inside the room. He bent to her hand, and she slipped off the ring and gave it to him to examine. She moved her elbow nearer to him and spoke in a still lower tone. Anyhow, he did not sentimentalize her. The operation was effected with so much rapidity and so little noise, that even if any one had been on the alert, he could scarcely have detected it. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. She would just walk out of the house and go. ” “What?” “That’s the devil of it!” “Devil of what?.
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