Wild never was the associate of thieves. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. The man lingered. “Why—it’s—it’s you!” Amazement seemed to dry up the torrents of his speech. Spurlock was fond of dogs; he was fond of this offspring of many mesalliances; but he never made any attempt to win Rollo, to share him. The clever hostess having let fall that several distinguished guests from France would be present, the world had flocked to her doors to catch, like the gossip-hungry vultures they were, a glimpse of them.
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