He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it. The sing-song girl, seeing Ruth, extended her hands and began to chatter rapidly. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. The girl in the forward chair raised herself a little, the better to see the gorgeous blue palanquin of the dimly visible bride. I ought to have seen—” “It doesn’t matter a rap—if you’re not disposed to resent the—the way I behaved.
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