Without a word or a gesture, the Wastrel turned and staggered forth, out of the orbit of these two, having been thrust into it for a single purpose already described. She was at the end of girlhood and on the eve of a woman’s crowning experience. ‘At me,’ she uttered, holding her own pistol high and aiming it steadily. ‘Whither away, mademoiselle?’ he said grimly, ungently grasping her arm above the elbow. Accordingly, on their presentation, Mr. Come down, I say, instantly, or I'll make you. A dissipated, loose-living man.
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