She went next day to the schools, and her world seemed all made of happiness just worked up roughly into shapes and occasions and duties. Wood, who were, furthermore, engaged in a little conjugal tête-à-tête of their own. 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. He wanted to know what the joke against him was—if any.
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