He was aware of Hilary, in company with Lucilla and the comtesse’s daughter some few yards away, listening in suddenly. Brown engaged in the usual browbeating and complaining he reserved for sections who came in late and soloists who left tempo behind like the leftovers of a Sunday picnic. 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. He whispered in her ear. "But, if I should not return, take this purse to Edgeworth Bess. "Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom.
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