” The lights sank, the prelude to the third act was beginning, the music rose and fell in crowded intimations of lovers separated—lovers separated with scars and memories between them, and the curtain went reefing up to display Tristan lying wounded on his couch and the shepherd crouching with his pipe. The ruse succeeded almost beyond his expectation. Let me take the satchel, sir. The silence of Canton at night was sinister, for none could prophesy what form of mob might suddenly boil out. With his tongue lolling and his flea-bitten stump wagging apologetically, he glanced from face to face to see if there was any forgiveness visible. It would be difficult to find another human being subjected to so many angles of attack as Spurlock. Somewhere she had read that it was the proper thing to do and that men liked to be alone with their tobacco. “It’s his birthday.
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