There came to Spurlock the recurrence of the grim resolution of what he had set out to do: that comradeship was all he might ever give this exquisite creature; for she was exquisite, and in a way she dominated this picture of sea and sky and sail. “I don’t know where to go to. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. Woman's love of silk is not set by fashion; it is bred in the bone; and somewhere, somehow, a woman will have her bit of silk. Immediately she had spoken of the loose button he knew that henceforth he must show no concern over the disposition of that coat. . "A vow," she answered,—"a vow to my dead husband. ’ A thought caught in her mind and she turned quickly to her old nurse.
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