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. "Mr. You two have a good time. Now you haven’t the ghost of one—not if you play the game fair. A brief description will suffice for them. That ring manifestly occupied her thoughts a great deal.
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