She waited for him to leave the room, and turned back to Gerald. The young male, as she had actually seen him, had been of the sailor type, hard-bitten, primordial, ruthless. We middle-aged fools and we old fools can no longer dream. ‘But this is altogether a chance of the luckiest. He drew both his pistols, and prepared for a desperate encounter. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. It was an impulse. She was sorry for his liking her too much for his own good, but her need was too desperate to cavil at turning it to useful account.
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