s words were falling upon dull
ears. He turned to observe what this object was that had so
unexpectedly diverted the young man's attention. It was the girl.
She was standing before a window, against the background of the
rain-burdened April sky. There was enough contra-light to render
her ethereal.

Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate
or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. He was
always word-building, a metaphorist, lavish with singing
adjectives; but often he built in confusion because it was
difficult to describe something beautiful in a new yet simple way.

He had not noticed the girl particularly when she offered the
sandwiches; but in this moment he found her beautiful. Her face
reminded him of a delicate unglazed porcelain cup, filled with
blond wine. But there was something else; and in his befogged
mental state the comparison eluded him.

Ruth broke the exquisite pose by summoning Ah Cum, who was lured
into a lecture upon the water-clock. This left Spurlock alone.

He began munching his water-chestnuts--a small brown radish-shaped
vegetable, with the flavour of coconut--that grow along the river
brims. Below the window he saw two coolies carrying a coffin, which
presently they callously dumped into a yawning pit. This made the
eleventh. There were no mourners. But what did the occupant of the
box care? The laugh was always with the dead: they were out of the
muddle.

From the unlovely hillside his glance strayed to the several
five-story towers of the pawnshops. Celestial Uncles! Spurlock
chuckled, and a bit of chestnut, going down the wrong way, set him
to coughing violently. When the paroxysm passed, he was forced to
lean against the window-jamb for support.

"That young man had better watch his cough," said Spinster
Prudence. "He acts queerly, too."

"They always act like that after drink," said Ruth, casually.

She intercepted the glance the spinsters exchanged, and immediately
sensed that she had said too much. There was no way of recalling
the words; so she waited.

"Miss Enschede--such an odd name!--are you French?"

"Oh, no. Pennsylvania Dutch. But I have never seen America. I was
born on an island in the South Seas. I am on my way to an aunt who
lives in Hartford, Connecticut."

The spinsters nodded approvingly. Hartford had a very respectable
sound.

Ruth did not consider it necessary, however, to add that she had
not notified this aunt of