" "Ah!" shrieked Lady Trafford. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. He turned his eyes and stared at Miss Garvice like one who wakes from a reverie, and then got up and strolled down the laboratory toward his refuge, the preparation-room. There was a gulf of eight years between her and the youngest of her brace of sisters—an impassable gulf inhabited chaotically by two noisy brothers. I'm thinking that the Wastrel was one day a celebrated professional; and the women were partly the cause of his fall. " "Curse you!" cried Jack, furiously,—"curse you!—curse you!" "Swear away, Captain," rejoined Blueskin, coolly.
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