Manning’s proposal of marriage and finding she was thinking of the dance. He leaned towards her as though anxious to see more of her face than that faint delicate profile gleaming like marble in the uncertain light. She smiled encouragingly, laying aside her plate and turning her chair from the table. 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. That world of fine printed cambrics and escorted maidens, of delicate secondary meanings and refined allusiveness, presented itself to her imagination with the brightness of a lost paradise, as indeed for many women it is a lost paradise. I am not of the canaille, but a bourgeois. "Come along, Mrs.
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