She watched her friend rise and go towards her affianced husband, a look of mischief in her face. And like that gospel it meant something, something different from its phrases, something elusive, and yet something that in spite of the superficial incoherence of its phrasing, was largely essentially true. She formed a habit which embarrassed Spurlock greatly, but at first he dared not complain. It was a gray day in the spring of 1910. . . Of all crafts,—and it was the only craft his poor father, who, to do him justice, was one of the best workmen that ever handled a saw or drove a nail, could never understand,—of all crafts, I say, to be an honest man is the master-craft. Moving room to room it was. Gianfrancesco had been talked into the arrangement only because the drivers that had handled the job for generations were sick or dead. "I've done with you. Ain't you, Jacky darling?" "Not quite, Poll," returned Mr. Spurlock mused over the previous night.
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