It seemed at this moment, however, that there was not going to be any “fun”, and Captain Roding said so. Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west veranda. The dusky obscurity of the room was twice welcome. Afterwards she hunted up the article in question, and it seemed to her quite delightfully written and argued. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. Still—” Then, with incredible and obviously deliberate stupidity, and a voice as flat as her own, he asked, “Who is the man?” Her spirit raged within her at the dumbness, the paralysis that had fallen upon her. During the narration Jack's features lighted up, and an expression, which would have been in vain looked for in repose, was instantly caught and depicted by the skilful artist. “Very well,” she would say, “then I must go.
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