"You'll find her quiet enough to-day, Sir," observed the woman, as they walked along; "but she has been very outrageous latterly. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. He walked through a wide open archway, curtained with deep-blue curtains, into the apartment that served as a reception-room. Her dress, it has just been said, was neatness and simplicity itself. “It’s nothing to what I WILL do. Not that it would make any difference if he was alive still. I’m so glad that Michelle’s invited Mike to dinner without telling me! Please make yourselves at home while I try and scrounge up some food so everyone can have dinner!” She sashayed back into the kitchen. 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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