CHAPTER XXIV Spurlock's novel was a tale of regeneration. Thrilling, she began to dance, swirled, glided, and dipped. He could talk to her as frankly as he could to a man, that she would not take offence at anything so long as it was in the form of explanation. "You remember that starling, Sir Rowland," he said maliciously, "and what occurred on it, twelve years ago?" "Too well," answered the knight, frowning. To witness this girl sewing on a loose button, flopping the coat about on her knees, tickled his ironic sense of humour; and laughter bubbled into his throat. A modest drinking bout which had its windup in a fan-tan house over in Kowloon, where O'Higgins tussled with varying fortune until five in the morning.
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