F. " CHAPTER XX To Spurlock it seemed as if a great iron door had swung in behind him, shutting out the old world. The locket contained the face of her mother—all the family album she had. Their talk drifted to the beauty of music, and they took that up again at tea-time. Whisky kills him suddenly; it does not sap him gradually. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. Buck up. It’s no good. And yet that could not be: it was a confession only in the event of his death. I believed I was strong enough to go on in silence; but I'm human like everybody else. That's the kind, my friend, that always fall soft.
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