’ He threw a fulminating glance at Gerald. “I am perfectly certain that that man meant to be rude to me. Arrived at the audience-chamber, he set down the light upon a stand, threw open the door, and announced in a loud voice, but with the perfect intonation of the person he represented,—"Sir Rowland Trenchard. ” The cab rumbled off. She loved to be there, taking part in it all, breathing it, being it. All was darkness, horror, confusion, ruin. The Wastrel wiped the blood from his forehead. That delightful sense of free, unembarrassed movement was gone.
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