She had to wait some minutes in an outer office, wherein three young men of spirited costume and appearance regarded her with ill-concealed curiosity and admiration. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. He was also aware that all his arguments would shatter themselves against her resolutions. "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. You can’t do that sort of thing unless you do it over religion, and there’s no religion in me—of that sort—worth a rap. I've sent for the priest.
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