Light flooded the uncarpeted chamber, revealing the decayed state of the place. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. “Fred,” he said, “do you remember taking me to dinner at the ‘Ambassador’s,’ one evening last September, to meet a girl who was singing there? Hamilton and Drummond and his lot were with us. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. She remained stonily in the middle of the hallway until the spinsters' door shut them from view … for ever.
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