“Don’t you understand? It is I whom you cared for in Paris, not Anna. ‘You see, Melusine, that none of our visitors were as informed as they would wish to be. One Friday afternoon, in this pleasant month, it chanced that Mr. Did you really doubt if I knew?” “No. The truth was impossible, indecent. 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.
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