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. ‘Very inventive. “Look here, Ann Veronica,” he began. But you, Ferringhall, our pattern, an erstwhile Sheriff of London, a county magistrate, a prospective politician, a sober and an upright man, one who, had he aspired to it, might even have filled the glorious position of Lord Mayor— James, a whisky and Apollinaris at once. “I will put the question,” Drummond said gravely. “I don’t care,” said Ann Veronica. “Dear friend,” she said, “this is a matter which you must leave to me to do as I think best. “Awfully good of you, Teddy. ‘I had no need of the place, and there was no money, of course. Of you, I mean. As soon as he was gone, the two women divested themselves of their hoods and cloaks, and threw them, as if inadvertently, into the farthest part of the angle in the wall. “There’s the classes,” said Constance, the well-informed.
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