"You're not hurt I hope, Sir Rowland?" inquired this individual. Leave me behind: I'm not afraid. She could not look at him through an interval that seemed to her a vast gulf of time. And ever after it struck him that her backward smile as she disappeared was charged with some special significance. They proved all sorts of things perhaps, but they were thick, unequal, pitiful pieces of work. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application.
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