"Swear that you will do this," she cried. Winifred's face had a thoroughly amiable look. Her new husband was pleased to watch the astonished look on her face as tray after tray appeared on the grand table, each better than the next. 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 repeated this breathlessly. It was everyone's favorite meal.
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