For what could be more ironical than for Howard Spurlock to see himself grow famous under the name of Taber? The ambrosia of which he had so happily dreamt!—and this gall and wormwood! He stood up and rapped his pipe on the rail. We aren't between him and heaven; he is between us and heaven. Three more people came to meet them at the door. Grandmothers and grandfathers and uncles and aunts … to love and to coddle lonely little girls. They talked lightly and smoked cigarettes till Anna, with a little laugh, threw open the window and let in the cool night air. He was snoring stupidly. He looked at it with uplifted eyebrows, but made no remark. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. I am yours for the making over. This is no place for me.
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