“In Paris our lives were far apart, and we had seldom the same friends. 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. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. “I am sure of it. ’ ‘What? But—’ ‘Precisely, Hilary. ” “It is an accident,” he answered. Even the love of a mother does not sway him.
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