The acid of this incertitude had disintegrated his nerve; and in Canton had come the smash. The sing-song girl, her fiddle broken, was beating her forehead upon the floor and wailing: Ai, ai! Ai, ai! Spurlock—or Taber, as he called himself—sat slumped in a chair, staring with glazed eyes at nothing, absolutely uninterested in the confusion for which he was primarily accountable. She was recalling the circumstances under which she had engaged herself to Manning, and trying to understand a curious development of the quality of this relationship. “What made you think” he said, abruptly, with the gleam of avidity in his face, “that love makes people happy?” “I know it must. She then opened Lucy’s meager closet and plucked out a pair of heeled boots usually reserved for weddings and funerals. His interest was divided: while his ears drank in the sounds, his glance constantly roved from Ruth to the performer and back to Ruth. Nothing to check their proceedings but a declining habit of telling the truth and the limitations of their imaginations.
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