He was tender with her as he had not been in years. . Spurling, drily. They said no more for a moment, and each was now acutely aware of the other. 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. If he adhered to this policy—to keep away from her inconspicuously—she would forget the name by night, and to-morrow even the bearer of it would sink below the level of recollection. "Your sympathy is being wasted. ‘Is that a gesture of friendship?’ She stamped her foot. The face of the man who lay there was clearly visible.
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