” “Bring her—here,” Hill muttered. Why was she noting things like this? Capes seemed selfpossessed and elaborately genial and commonplace, but she knew him to be nervous by a little occasional clumsiness, by the faintest shadow of vulgarity in the urgency of his hospitality. 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. She accomplished it with the aid of the young fellow’s hand, and stepped down into the road, glancing up at the house as she did so. I dared not sing, I dared not laugh, except when you went away. “Oh, I am lonely,” she moaned. I chose you for your strength, your cunning, your intelligence, your great beauty. He seemed so clean anyway, his fair 215 skin, his light brown hair, there almost seemed to be no point. She shot a sudden glance at him.
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