The study seemed absolutely unaltered, there was still the same lamp with a little chip out of the shade, still the same gas fire, still the same bundle of blue and white papers, it seemed, with the same pink tape about them, at the elbow of the arm-chair, still the same father. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. More than this, it would serve to mitigate her own abysmal loneliness to pool it temporarily with his. “But why, Lucy? Who is it 145 that you are trying to hide from? John?” Lucy closed her eyes in earnest. “You go home and think of all this,” he said, “and talk about it to-morrow. They looked out over the city, grim and silent now, for it was long past midnight.
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