In the north they called her Manitou, in the south, Pabothkew. From the portals of the hotel—scarcely fifty yards from the canal—one saw the blank face of the ancient city of Canton. In a sense I don’t care. Spurlock. E. Annabel lounged in her chair with a sort of insolent abandon in her pose, and wide-open eyes which never flinched or drooped. What in the world was the wench up to now? For it must be she. But as the students sat about Miss Garvice’s tea-pot and drank tea or smoked cigarettes, the talk got away from Capes.
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