” She glared at Sebastian over the drawing table where she was sketching in chalk, then over at the fifteen year old boy who was asleep in a disheveled pile of rushes in the corner. On her lapel was an ivory button, bearing the words “Votes for Women. They were talking of “Alcide,” as they often did in those days. Nothing is of any concern of ours except the discovery of the man’s identity. “There is my aunt,” she said. 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. He was astonished.
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