Marvel held her handkerchief to her eyes, and appeared in great distress. Her glasses moved quickly as her glance travelled from face to face. 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. They went first to a hotel, and then out again on to the boulevards. Like a petulant child he snapped.
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