” “I wonder,” he said, a trifle irrelevantly, “what the future has in store for you. 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. Can you afford to give this time? There are your own affairs to think of. ‘Don’t try to turn it off,’ ordered Miss Froxfield. "What of that," rejoined Jonathan. ” Again that curious smile which puzzled him so much parted her lips for a moment.
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