“So she must have had you fairly young, right?” Lucy nodded again. “You’re self-taught, aren’t you, Lucy?” She looked around the table, all eyes upon her. For four hours he had shifted his own troubles to the shoulders of these imaginative characters. 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. She has had offers innumerable; for where wealth and beauty are combined, as in her instance, suitors are seldom wanting. “Annabel, I begin to see why you are here.
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