She looked at Lucy guiltily, wondering if she would be betrayed. 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. Was that it? Had she clothed this unhappy young man with glamour? Or was it because he was so alone? She could not get through the husks to the kernel of what really actuated her. The door was closed— locked,—and the pair were heard descending the stairs. An old man with a bent back who limped in, slow and stiff, leaning heavily on a cane. Some part of the stiff vigour of the man seemed to have subsided. His foot touched the rounded edge of the starling, and glanced off, precipitating him into the water.
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