Each was natural, each was artificial—sweet, elaborate, decorated, highly bred.
Nang Ping's face and lips were painted; Mrs. Gregory's were not. But her nails were slightly, beneath her gloves, and so were Nang's that had never worn a glove. Mrs. Gregory's eyebrows were lightly penciled. Nang Ping's were not. Nang Ping's hair had taken the longer to dress, but the dressing of the other's had cost an hour. The black hair was stiffened into shape with thick scented gum; the blonde hair was marceled into shape by hot tongs. And Mrs. Gregory had the slightly smaller feet, and far less comfortably shod. For Wu had set his face against one custom of his country, and braved the anger of his ancestors. Nang smoked a pipe—Basil Gregory could not insert his smallest finger-tip into its tiny bowl—Florence Gregory smoked cigarettes; and they both inhaled sometimes. And each considered the other of inferior race.
They looked at each other curiously—Mrs. Gregory frankly so. Nang veiled her keen interest. But her interest was the more. The English woman was keenly interested in China and in things Chinese. The country had fascinated her powerfully, its odd people considerably. But she did not take Chinese womanhood very seriously. Every one of intelligence knew by now that many Chinese men were clever, almost hideously so, but equally every one knew that Chinese women were limited—very. Of course, the terrible old woman who ruled at Pekin was shrewd, unless her ministers, Li Hung Chang and the rest, did it all for her, which was probable; and then, too, she wasn't Chinese really, Tartar not Mongol. And Mrs Gregory had no suspicion of what must have interested her in Nang Ping indeed. She was
