CHAPTER XXXIII
A Chinese Teaching
There was terrible silence between them. Great
puffs of sweet smell came in at the window where
the headheavy wistaria hung and the lemon verbena
crowded at its gnarled roots, and bursts of sweet sound
from birds singing in the sun.
They looked at each other, weighing each the other—the man who had given Nang Ping life and the man who had given her shame.
They each had given her death: one in guilt, one in love.
Basil Gregory looked into Wu's eyes and could not look away—fascinated, horror-held.
Wu looked his fill, then turned away and went slowly to the shrine.
Again he put the pungent votive powders to the flame, and all the room quivered with deeply opalescent lights, and the odors of the garden were as naught.
The mandarin bent his head to the tablet, and walked away from the shrine, speaking in a changed tone—quite lightly.
"But I was speaking of your mother. I am expecting her here."
"Expecting her! Here?"
"Here," the Chinese repeated, standing close to Basil, eyeing him narrowly.
"Then they know" Basil began, but could not finish.
