“I’m really very sorry. E. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. "I could," replied Thames. Joyous, she felt the need of physical expression; and her body began to sway sinuously, to glide and turn and twist about the room. 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. The chief influence was her awakening sense of the need of money. Have you seen much of her lately?” “Nothing at all,” he answered.
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