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“Will you come this way,” she said, “into the drawing-room? There is no one there just now. "I don't know," she answered vaguely. He embraced her like her father once had. Already he was dramatizing Ruth, involving her, now in some pearl thieving adventure, now in some impossible tale of a white goddess. “YOU had to come in. 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. You seemed, he thought, to have some grievance which you would not explain and which he thought must arise from a misunderstanding. ” Ennison shrugged his shoulders. Afterwards, it may be different.
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