If only she had thought to plunge the scissors into her own heart! Hoddy … to return and find her either gone or dead! But even as the Wastrel's arms gathered her, there came the sound of hurrying steps on the veranda. She lied. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture. He ignored her protests in order to pursue some impressive line of his own. Up to this moment, hopes had been entertained of a respite, strong representations in his favour having been made in the highest quarter; but now that his fate seemed sealed, the curiosity of the sight-seeing public to behold him was redoubled. He flung himself backwards, hit the dais and fell heavily before the altar, losing his low-crowned beaver. “Stay where you are for a moment,” she directed. "I'll admit that. This is part of a dream— some evil fancy. “Miss Ellicot!” Brendon echoed.
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