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. And then I'll pay off old scores. If only this child were his: what good times they would have together! The thought passed on, but it left a little ache in his heart. There was a tearing sound as the canvas gave way, and the precious portrait ripped apart as the top of the Frenchman’s head came through it. He fell backwards on his butt, the wind knocked out of him. His attraction for her was now written plainly on his freckled face, revealed by the many drinks he had imbibed. Advancing towards him, he made him a formal salutation, which was coldly returned. “Why on earth did you TELL me?” he cried.
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