“Dear old Daddy,” she said, “he’ll make a fearful fuss. She would never love him as she loved Capes, of course, but there are grades and qualities of love. That’s why he was so annoyed, you know. 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. “Do you think he’s still around?” She paused thoughtfully.
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