If the Wastrel had not turned the instant he did, the ball would have missed him; as it was he turned directly into its path. Members of the crowd looked over their shoulders and stared at her through the smoky haze. He stalked her, he stared at her, he craved her, he sidled slinking and propitiatory and yet relentlessly toward her, until at last she awoke from the suffocating nightmare nearness of his approach, and lay awake in fear and horror listening to the unaccustomed sounds of the hotel. As she drew off her skirt she felt something in the pocket, and remembered the letter which the commissionaire at the Carlton had given her. “It was just an hour before teatime,” she remarked. Presently he caught her puzzled glance, and recollected himself, turning on the charm again.
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