"I beg your pardon," he cried; "but really—ha! ha!—you must excuse me!—that is so uncommonly diverting—ha! ha! Do let me hear it again?—ha! ha! ha!" "Upon my word," rejoined Wood, "you seem vastly entertained by my misfortunes. It has all been a mistake. And ever after it struck him that her backward smile as she disappeared was charged with some special significance. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth.
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