“Your sex is a terrible fraud. 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. We could go to University together. After fifteen years, to find that peculiarly Occidental attribute—college loyalty—still alive in his heart! A Western idea that had survived; an idea that was merely the flower of youthful enthusiasm! With his hands still in his sleeves, his chin down in speculation over this phenomenon, he continued his patrol. "Well, well; look who's here!" cried Spurlock. “To begin with, I was—I was in the divorce court. ‘But the major—’ ‘The major can say nothing at all. . "You know not what you do. I’m right again now.
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