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. To walk beside him, dressed akin to him, rucksacked and companionable, was bliss in itself; each step she took was like stepping once more across the threshold of heaven. No wonder that Trenchard, as he gazed at this fearful being, should have some misgivings cross him. "Are you his ghost, then?" "No—no," answered Jack. I'm glad of it, I'm sure; for it's all owing to him his poor mother's here. You may enjoy your pride, your arrogance—in a coffin.
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