I fancy that this is a little more than playing at Bohemianism. She tiptoed into the entryway where some decorator had placed a live orchid upon a glassy ebony table. Well-balanced, sane, wasn’t I? You never heard anyone call me a madman? I’m pretty near being one now, and it’s her fault. “Only four spoonsful left,” she declared briskly, “and your turn to buy the next pound, Sydney. What a frightened fool he was! If he could not remember her name, it was equally possible that already she had forgotten his. 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.
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