Why hadn't he gone on with the girl's story? What instinct had stuffed it back into his throat? Why the inexplicable impulse to hurry this rather pathetic derelict on his way? CHAPTER XV Previous to his illness, Spurlock's mind had been tortured by an appalling worry, so that now, in the process of convalescence, it might be compared to a pool which had been violently stirred: there were indications of subsidence, but there were still strange forms swirling on the surface—whims and fancies which in normal times would never have risen above sub-consciousness. “By Jove!” he broke out, “one tries to take a serious, sober view. She had never even brought a friend home in her time at the Becks, let alone been asked on dates. Was it ruined?’ ‘But yes, it was entirely ruined. “Now isn’t this nice!” that lady exclaimed. I’ve made an ally of her champion. And God had let him do it! He was—and now he perfectly understood that he was—treading the queerest labyrinth a man had ever entered.
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