Spurlock plodded through the heavy sand, leaden in the heart and mind as well as in the feet. "No Mohocks! No Scourers!" cried the mob. " "Six," he corrected. At the same time he comprehended that she was as pure and lovely as the white orchid of Borneo and that she did not carry that ridiculous shield called false modesty. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. McClintock watched her interestedly until her golden head vanished below; then, with tolerant pity, he looked down at Spurlock, who had closed his eyes. The parlour was cluttered but cosy. “Yes, I have heard of him, and I know him by sight,” he admitted.
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