It wound around a small manufactured lake. If only she had thought to plunge the scissors into her own heart! Hoddy … to return and find her either gone or dead! But even as the Wastrel's arms gathered her, there came the sound of hurrying steps on the veranda. Her eyes were dilated— fixed in a horrified stare at the parting in the curtains which hung before the window. Her safety lay in pretense—that what she saw was as a tale twice told. Thrilling, she began to dance, swirled, glided, and dipped. What hotel should she go to? If she told a cabman to drive to an hotel, any hotel, what would he do—or say? He might drive to something dreadfully expensive, and not at all the quiet sort of thing she required. Almost worthy of your own fertile imagination. “You are of the genus obstinate,” he said.
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