Sydney was strumming over a new song which stood upon the piano. 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. Annabel half filled her glass with wine, and taking a little folded packet from her plate, shook the contents into it. Did I not say so, Hilary?’ Melusine’s glance shot across to the newcomer, and found a petite blonde standing there, very fashionably attired in a velvet mantel over an apple-green robe, the furred hood framing a face alive with mischief. "Let me have a word with the cull!" "Ay! ay!" cried several of the bystanders, "let Jonathan kimbaw the cove.
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