"Wait!" she ran her eye down the page. "'Beautiful woman—with a—Past'—that's the girl up in the other Masquerader's shack, that girl Joyce, you know, and Gaston—and here's Peggy Falstar—'woman sunk to man's level and reproducing her kind'—brief note of Billy Falstar as 'impish child'—oh! here you are!
"'Village Bacchus. Tall, handsome, but lost, apparently, to shame. Swaggering criss-cross down the road, laughing senselessly and shouting songs. Slave to appetite. Controlled by his brutal passions. When spoken to in this state, assumes manner of gentleman. Subconscious self—study in heredity.—Let a strong influence enter his life—handsome noble girl—redemption at end—splendid character.'"
"Good God!"
Constance dropped the book. The eyes that met her own had a look in them that drove the cold, which she had not felt before, to her very heart.
"What—what—is the matter?" she gasped.
"Did you—ever see me—like that?" The words came hoarsely.
"Yes. One day a few weeks ago. Ralph wanted you. I went to find you—and"—the girl's eyes dropped. She felt a sudden humiliation as if he had detected her reading his private letters.
"And I talked—rot and all the rest?"
"Yes. I never told Ralph; I knew it would hurt him—I had—no right to tell you this—it is only—copy for me."
"Copy?"