She was marvellously pretty, but he was not quite sure—yet—that it was advisable for him to sit with her in so public a place. 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. “A very clear statement, madam,” he said. As sure as you're sitting there, Mr. ' He muttered it continually. Kneebone's cheeks glowed with rage, and he set down the wine untasted, while Blueskin resumed his song. .
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