I'll go straight to the hotel afterwards—dinner usual time?"
"Of course, dear, unless you'd like it earlier or later. Do you know, Basil, you haven't dined with us for days?"—Nang Ping knew it. "I'm getting quite anxious about your health, dear. Bother that fusty office! You don't seem a bit yourself."
Her boy laughed at her and put his hand under her chin. (And Nang Ping watched them curiously.) "You dear—why—I—I'm as right as rain."
"Then prove it, my son—a big man's dinner at eight. Now, if Miss Wu will excuse you"—for evidently he was uncomfortable here—and why not, the dear English child? How should he be anything else in this funny Chinese nook with these Chinese girls? Probably he could not even see how pretty this smaller one was, for all her narrow eyes and absurd, grotesque clothes and paint, and it was plain that he could not find a word to say to either of them, not even to this one who was playing hostess so nicely, and who understood English and spoke it surprisingly. His silence towards the plump dumpling of a cousin, who was showing Hilda about the garden with quaint bobbings and solemn pantomime, was excusable enough. She didn't know a word of English, it seemed; though you never could tell what a Chinese did or didn't know, John Bradley said, and Ah Wong said so too. But really, Basil might have made an effort, and said a little something civil to the English-knowing hostess; he was not often so shy—he had been at Oxford, and he was her son. Robert had no savoir faire, but, as a rule, the boy had some.
When he was free from his mother, Basil moved to Nang Ping to take leave of her. She received him with a quiet dignity that seemed perfectly natural. "Chi-
