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. My wife—killed me. “I don’t know much about the technique of music,” he said at last, with his eyes upon her. But she veiled her feelings. They leave them out of novels—these incompatibilities. The scent of cloying pine dust filled the air as floodlights shone eerily through the jungle gym of new wood. Lucy sighed. "I did all for the best, as I'll explain.
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