Of course, one doesn’t like to talk about things until there are things to talk about. " The Wastrel laughed. ‘The poor girl was thrust into a convent to become a nun. when I was five. Well-born, welleducated; those are the lads that pay in full. It slid off flimsily. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. In each pause she could sense his growing trepidation. I was ready to wager that your name would have marched with one of them. Forgetting the dark thoughts of his last brush with the girl, he dropped the dagger back in his pocket, quickened his pace, and went back into the house to look for his hostess. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. This is my last week at the ‘Unusual,’ you know. I want to get away—to go to London. Perhaps marriage hurt. His hair is oddly streaked with gray —I might say a dishonourable gray.
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