And he hated the girl who had beaten him off with her heavy riding-crop.
McQuade drove on, and Warrington resumed his interrupted study of the sidewalk.

McQuade thought nothing more about the fellow who wrote plays, and the dramatist had no place in his mind for the petty affairs of the politician.

Fate, however, moves quite as certainly and mysteriously as the cosmic law.

The bitter feud between these two men began with their dogs.
At the club Warrington found a few lonely bachelors, who welcomed him to the long table in the grill-room; but he was in no mood for gossip and whisky.

He ordered a lithia, drank it quickly, and escaped to the reading-room to write some letters.
Down in the grill-room they talked him over.
"I don't know whether he boozes now, but he used to be tanked quite regularly," said one.
"Yes, and they say he writes best when half-seas over." "Evidently," said a third, "he doesn't drink unless he wants to; and that's more than most of us can say." "Pshaw! Sunday's clearing-up day; nobody drinks much on Sunday.