‘That’s my pet name. On the one hand, she seemed to think plainly and simply, and would talk serenely and freely about topics that most women have been trained either to avoid or conceal; and on the other she was unconscious, or else she had an air of being unconscious—that was the riddle—to all sorts of personal applications that almost any girl or woman, one might have thought, would have made. . No, not one little bit. Trodger was lying in wait at the bottom of the narrow stairs. It had, as it were, blown up at the concussion of his first step. . He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. Old Bedlam 291 IX. As the Wastrel played, Spurlock knew that the man saw the inevitable end—death by drink; saw the glory of the things he had thrown away, the past, once so full of promise.
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