“You are coming in, aren’t you, Sydney?” “If I may,” he answered. The danger you put yourself in by remaining here astounds me. The hard work will be his, until we yank this young fellow back from the brink. But that instinct is severely dampened most of the time. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all its peculiar force.
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