Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. The wine bubbled and seethed; and the exquisite bouquet of oranges permeated the room. There was a time, long, long ago, when the tears would have rushed to my eyes unbidden at the bare mention of generosity like yours, Mr. “Only four spoonsful left,” she declared briskly, “and your turn to buy the next pound, Sydney. You speak as one injured—as though I had been the one to take your name—as though you had been the one to make sacrifices. Through it all Spurlock maintained a gaiety which deceived them completely. Sheppard, which she gratefully declined.
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