Unless there was some real metal in the young fool, some hidden strength with which to breast the current, Ruth would become a millstone around his neck and soon he would become to her an object of pity and contempt. " The attendant did not understand him. Her moods were many and always striking. 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. What can she be? The wife of a country tradesman, or a duchess? And such a meek little husband too. He was a little embarrassed. ‘Because you are a bête, and a pig, and imbecile. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust.
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