A single blanket constituted his sole covering at night. “I wonder what you could do?” he said. To his astonishment and delight it yielded to the pressure, toppled over the ledge, and sank. It was true. All the money he earned—serving McClintock and the muse—could be laid away. One point was that she was to wear fancy dress in the likeness of a Corsair’s bride, and the other was that she was to spend whatever vestiges of the night remained after the dance was over in London with the Widgett girls and a select party in “quite a decent little hotel” near Fitzroy Square. But men of the Spurlock type, who walk straight, who are unobtrusive and intensely pale, they break swiftly and inexplicably. He couldn't be in better hands than those in which he has placed himself. The tension was palpable.
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