Then his tiny bow mouth opened into an adoring smile. The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense. Apparently he thought it very much worth while. Both husband and wife affected an unnatural ease of manner for the benefit of the efficient parlor-maid, who was putting the finishing touches to the sideboard arrangements. 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. But the sheer immensity of the tract! James Boyle was certainly up against it, hard. “I knew you would feel it,” said Miss Miniver, as they came away flushed and heated. Even WITH the Censorship of Plays there’s hardly a decent thing to which a man can take his wife and daughters, a creeping taint of suggestion everywhere.
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