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McClintock stared into the bowl of his pipe and Spurlock into his coffee cup. At first Spurlock tasted coconut in his eggs, in what meat he ate; it permeated everything, taste and smell. “Touch a hair on his head and you will insure that I will never make love to you again. I'll eat them when we start. Men ought not to idealize any woman. And in this fact lay his danger. Why hadn't he gone on with the girl's story? What instinct had stuffed it back into his throat? Why the inexplicable impulse to hurry this rather pathetic derelict on his way? CHAPTER XV Previous to his illness, Spurlock's mind had been tortured by an appalling worry, so that now, in the process of convalescence, it might be compared to a pool which had been violently stirred: there were indications of subsidence, but there were still strange forms swirling on the surface—whims and fancies which in normal times would never have risen above sub-consciousness. “A modern girl does understand these terms. By this time, she had so far succeeded in calming herself, that she answered the greetings of the neighbours whom she encountered on her way to the sacred edifice—if sorrowfully, still composedly. Even then it sent Spurlock spinning backward, to crash against the wall.
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