“Dreadful women, my dear!” said Miss Stanley. He mumbled an apology and then stopped short. He was engaged in detesting Manning and himself in almost equal measure. 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 was extremely showily dressed, and her large hooped petticoat gave additional effect to her lofty stature. "Aye—to pretend to her that you don't care. . ” She trailed off as the smell hit her nose.
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