Spurlock knew that somewhere along the way he would write a story worth while. “I believe,” he said stiffly, “that these are the apartments of Miss Pellissier. She would never forget the agony of that first meal in the great dining room. It’s a thing that’s happened to you. “Where would you like to go? Are you hungry?” “No. The features were indistinct, but was that not a halo of white about it? And the dark shadow below, was that a cloak, or the habit of a nun? Skirting the dancing, from which he had taken a breather—not from lack of energy, but to escape the inanities of the young ladies he had partnered—Gerald made his way to a side door in the saloon and opened it. She was dressed as a white woman should be; and that for the present satisfied her instincts. Suddenly he understood what had happened.
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