He did not spend more time with her. “No, I’m not a virgin. It was really very nice of you, but to-morrow you will laugh at it as I do now. They alighted at the restaurant, and stood for a moment in the passage looking into the crowded room. And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account. 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.
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