Something in her lack of embarrassment irritated him. "The shoulder-clappers!" added a lady, who, in her anxiety to join the party, had unintentionally substituted her husband's nether habiliments for her own petticoats. 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. His breath grew shallower as he approached the room, conscious of the loudness of his hallway-reverberated footfalls. He came to her at once, and turning, walked by her side. She seemed bursting with the desire to talk, and watching for her opportunity. “You mean to follow her. He had not proceeded far when he encountered Sir Rowland, who, having missed his attendant, had returned to look after him.
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