Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. It was a society column about the richest men in the world and their lavish parties. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. Alarmed by the noise of the scuffle, Quilt and Sharples rushed to the assistance of their comrade. I don’t! Please enlighten me. I am not going to be a chorus girl, or even a super.
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