“Mr. ” She became aware of her aunt, through the panes of the greenhouse, advancing with an air of serene unconsciousness from among the raspberry canes. " "Who told you this is his portrait?" demanded Trenchard. She was like an angel with one wing. If such a thing in connexion with him had been possible they would have declared that he was in a towering rage. 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. She sensed his acute frustration as he unzipped her raincoat while trying to kiss her.
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