Spurlock plodded through the heavy sand, leaden in the heart and mind as well as in the feet. ” “And you?” “Rather!” “I wonder why?” “There’s no why. She was still fully dressed; so all she had to do was to pause before the mirror and give her hair a few pats. ‘You’re either mad, or in love. ” He said. Hanging on the wall was a temple censer, bronze, moulded in the shape of a lotus blossom with stem and leaves—deadly as a club. He was really very proud of her, and extraordinarily angry and resentful at the innocent and audacious selfreliance that seemed to intimate her sense of absolute independence of him, her absolute security without him. On the morrow Spurlock (who was unaware that he had offered a prayer) let down the bars to his reserve.
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