“What do you think of that farce?” he exclaimed bitterly. " "A novelist?" cried Ruth, thrilling. "Farewell!" cried Jack, embracing them. “Four,” Anna decided firmly. Outside the door he turned and stared at the panels. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. But she did not in the least want to do that. His face, as he looked down where his hand sought for a weapon concealed in her petticoat, was so close that she could see only the line of his firm jaw, the drag of his powdered hair that drew it into the military pigtail, and the black ribbon that adorned it. He filled his pipe slowly.
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