Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. ’ Gerald grinned. No further responsibility whatever. She had, it was true, accepted doubtfully the pen he had offered. Wanted her out of the way because he had been afraid of her, afraid of himself! He, at fifty-four! Then into this void poured a flaming anger, a blind and unreasoning anger. She lifted the sheet and gestured for him to join her. Weeks hurled past, weeks that turned into months. She was struck by a change in his appearance. Spurlock was no longer a man before this instinct; he was a child in trouble. In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis.
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