Drummond smoked his cigarette meditatively. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. Her eyelids fluttered with recognition, and she cried out softly. She decided that she would try to push whatever resolve he had in the car to see where it would lead. Melusine had confessed this morning, that she had borrowed his horse, that Jack had met with his accident through her fault. I'll wait for you down here. Heaven alone knows why. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them.
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