‘Beg pardon, miss, but I’m told as how—’ She broke off, her eyes widening, her jaw dropping open. Always. "You have killed him," cried Winifred in alarm. In the struggle the pistol went off, but without damage to either party. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. He was aware of Hilary, in company with Lucilla and the comtesse’s daughter some few yards away, listening in suddenly. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky.
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