In the middle there was a gate. In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. Their expression was so amiable, that it would have redeemed a countenance a thousand times plainer than hers. The sound of their strident voices floated upwards, the high nasal note of the predominant Americans, the shrill laughter of girls quick to appreciate the wit of such of their male companions as thought it worth while to be amusing. And yet to Spurlock it was only the title of a story he would some day write. ‘Well, what was I to think, miss? Martha never wrote nothing about you, and I did ask. It was hard to gain weight when you hated to eat. I guess they were bad all the time. “He fancied that he did,” she corrected him coolly. She refrained.
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