So, then, when McClintock offered the coveted haven, Spurlock became afire to dramatize the idea. “Bit thick on the old man, isn’t it?” said Roddy, who had developed a bluff, straightforward style in the motor shop. "No; I don't think I'd laugh. ‘Well, I can see you won’t let it alone, so what do you propose to do about the wench?’ ‘I’ll die before I let it alone,’ Gerald vowed. Gwen—I saw Gwen the other day, and the paint’s thicker than ever. The thought passed through his mind even as he started to cross the terrace at a jogtrot, moving to head her off. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. Several men and women were piled there like wood, dead, horribly gored. “I’ve plenty of pals,” he said, “who, when they’ve been doing Paris on the Q.
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