. 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. (What was the name he had given her that day?) He was walking beside the chair upon which appeared to be a bundle of colours. She hung about his chair, followed him to the door, touched his sleeve timidly, all the while striving to pronounce the words which refused to rise to her tongue. The young man looked at her. She wasn’t well-liked really, I think people were jealous of her. Muttering something to himself, he appeared to be telling upon his fingers the advantages and disadvantages of some scheme he had in contemplation. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest.
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