” She laughed. They fell into step again. His face darkened. He was sipping a glass of cold gin and water, and smoking a short black pipe. He was helpful, but gravely dubious. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. She got hysterical. Lucy stepped inside. But Spurlock was ever on guard, even when she fussed over his hair. "You read it, Ruth. Lives by his wits and gambling. But it don't much matter—though he's a devilish shrewd fellow, and might have helped me out of a difficulty, had any occurred. Winifred's reception was kind, but more distant, and after the slight ceremonial she resumed her occupation. He had “put his foot down,” and said she must not go. But I will not be engaged as ‘Alcide’ or advertised under that name.
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