He shuddered. Then it came to her with a shock, as an extraordinary oversight, that she could never tell Manning about Ramage—never. She would come and sit cross-legged just beyond the bamboo curtain and silently watch him at work. There was once a philanthropist who dressed with shameful shabbiness and carried pearls in his pocket. Five hours later she tiptoed down the hall and paused at the threshold of what they now called his study. 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. 'Whoso giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord;' that's my comfort.
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