“Or I wouldn’t have said anything about it. Sometimes the music would be tender and dreamy, like a native mother's crooning to her young; sometimes it would be so gay that the flesh tingled and the feet were urged to dance; again, it would be like the storms crashing, thunderous. Sampans with fish and fruit and vegetables swarmed about, while overhead gulls wheeled and swooped and circled. It was one of those old sliding trap affairs, narrow and steep of descent. Now, it was a wilderness of weeds. But she had not reckoned with the etiquette of Canongate. “I repeat, gentlemen,” he said, in an ominously low tone, “what of it?” Drummond shrugged his shoulders. The comparisons upon which she could draw were few and confusingly new, mixed with reality and the loose artistic conceptions of heroes in fiction. “Very well,” said her father.
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