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. “I can’t! He appears to be a most immovable person. ” Lucy’s nagging worry raised its own status to full blown alarm. He had meant to be master of his fate that evening and it had escaped him altogether. Lucy acted the part of savoring the end of the meal, but it was difficult. “It’s the stir of spring,” he said. Except that this music we have been swimming in is divine. Imitating the example of Mr.
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