This salute of his—actually the first she could remember—while it did not disturb her, began to lead her thoughts into new channels of speculation. 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 came in now with an air of reserved solicitude. Oh the back of her arm she found the faintest down of hair in the world. 207 She romanced a dark-haired farmer a few times, having long since forgotten his name. "What's that to you?" demanded Jonathan, gruffly. . . This girl whom he had met by chance and befriended had done both.
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