’ He quirked an eyebrow. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. And yet the moment I am safely out of the way you are content to dress yourself in my rags, to go and get yourself popular and admired and successful, all on my reputation. As the Wastrel played, Spurlock knew that the man saw the inevitable end—death by drink; saw the glory of the things he had thrown away, the past, once so full of promise. But there was an abiding serpent in this Eden. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it.
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