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“Feel better. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. I will not trust you. In Europe or in America people would have smiled; but in Singapore—the half-way port of the world—where a human kaleidoscope tumbles continuously east and west, no one had remarked her. Then her white teeth gleamed, and her excuse for remaining any longer before that little marble table was gone. She wished that the drive would never end, but it was only three miles after all. The doleful procession at once assumed a festive character. The solos were revealing, sensual and moody. “How dared you do yourself this injustice?” “I did it for her sake,” she answered.
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