The last piece was Scheherazade. 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. She should be lifted out of her narrow little life, and it should be all owing to him. Your career at the bar had given you a command of language, also a self-control not vouchsafed to us ordinary mortals.
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