He passed his arm under that of the constable, and drew him aside. She was powerless to move from her chair. Spurling, who had been hastily compounding another bowl of punch. Do you want me, too?” “Yes,” she whispered foolishly, in the throes of rapture. “But if you had?” she said. Suddenly she thrust her head out of the window. He cried out but his father only waved 280 like an automaton until the apparition disappeared. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. The address was of course her destination, thousands of miles away, an infinitesimal spot in a terrifying space. A wild passion of shame and self-disgust swept over her. Her father’s ideas of expostulation were a little harsh and forcible, and over the claret-colored table-cloth and under the gas chandelier, with his hat and umbrella between them like the mace in Parliament, he and his daughter contrived to have a violent quarrel. .
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