“I really do not believe,” he announced with satisfaction, “that any one would recognize me. It mattered not whether she flunked the year as she would soon be gone. “Of course, one lives differently in Paris, but then—Paris is Paris. 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 pictured himself visiting the girl in this shabby little home of her aunt’s—she had told him that it was shabby—and he recalled that delicious little smile with which she would surely greet him, a smile which seemed to be a matter of the eyes as well as the lips. Ah Cum is a Yale man and so is this Taber. But she must not laugh.
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