Perhaps I deceived you about it. 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. “To the young man himself,” he answered, “no! I simply object to his calling here two or three times a week during my absence. “Come, we must go home and have some luncheon. Be honest, and you will be happy.
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