She even thought that perhaps she might come to love him, in spite of that faint indefinable flavor of absurdity that pervaded his courtly bearing. How came you, Sir," he continued, addressing Sheppard, "to venture upon that frame. And so I'll tell you what I did —" And she burst into a laugh that froze Jack's blood in his veins. "I thought I heard a noise. I believe that her ladyship is going to Carey House, and on to the Marquis of Waterford’s ball,” he added, hastily consulting a diary on the hall table. The thing is done. She had no place she loved. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. I’m glad I did. Sheppard. Not a job he may care about; but he's a good sport.
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