The door was closed— locked,—and the pair were heard descending the stairs. Borrow. The necessity of defending herself and assuming a confident and secure tone did much to dispell the sense of being exposed and indefensible in a huge dingy world that abounded in sinister possibilities. 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. “Oh! I wish,” she said, “that people thought alike about these things. Her mother had died when she was thirteen, her two much older sisters had married off—one submissively, one insubordinately; her two brothers had gone out into the world well ahead of her, and so she had made what she could of her father. If I were a clean, free man—We’ll have to talk of all these things. I have plenty of money, and the Duke will not be in the next Cabinet. The eggs were all right, but nobody in this part of the world had the least conception of what the coffee bean was for. “Dear husband,” she murmured.
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