“Come,” he said, “this is capital, capital. He found the horse where Thames told him he would find him, mounted, and rode off across the fields in the direction of town. A skeleton was propped against the mantelpiece. Lucy had just began to invoke a solace where John was concerned, doing her best to shelve him as not so special after all. 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. Her head was downcast as she studied the museum-like exhibits of various dusts on the resilient tile flooring. "Are you a poltroon, after all?" "That's it! I ought to have died that night!" "Or is there a taint of insanity in your family history? Alone and practically penniless like yourself! You weren't even stirred by gratitude. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. "We were talking shop," said McClintock, rising.
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