I sometimes laid away my father's clothes in his trunk. I sent a message straight. I fancy that Sir John does not approve of me. There was a long silence between them. 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. “Do not force me to take you seriously,” she continued. Lord, what a state I was in! Night after night I sat there, I watched her come in, I watched her go. Ten years of military life had taught him caution, but only strengthened a fearless zest for diving into any promising adventure with unalloyed enjoyment. For all that she was of exceptional intellectual enterprise, she had never yet considered these things with unaverted eyes.
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