But first, we’ve got to secure the convent. Beyond was a chaise longue, covered with cushions and shawls laid anyhow across it, together with a discarded tapestry in the making, and a scattering of woollen threads about it. “My sister,” she murmured, “is so independent. 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. “Excellent fellow!” he answered a little irrelevantly. Gold-handled, too. But luncheon and dinners you will sit at my table.
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