CHAPTER XXXV
The Story of the Sword
"You—you shouldn't have done that," Mrs. Gregory
faltered as the door closed again behind Ah Sing.
"She is very devoted to me," she added feebly.
"No doubt," the mandarin answered tersely. "But I fancy my authority is even more powerful than her devotion."
The woman's uneasiness was growing rapidly. "I don't think I ought to have come," she said, looking about her nervously. "But now," with an effort to speak ordinarily and to assume an unconcern she no longer felt, "Mr. Wu, what is the news?"
"Oh! pray, Mrs. Gregory," the Chinese begged, all the blandness in his voice again, "do not let so trifling an incident disturb you in the least."
A sudden throb of Chinese music came from the garden, and at the first note a change crept into his face. It was such music—but softly thrummed, almost timid—as he and Wu Lu had heard together on their first hours alone in Sze-chuan. Chinese music is strange to European ears; they rarely learn to hear it for what it is. It is not discord. It is not crude. At its best it is the pulse of passion turned into sound. No other music is so passionate, no other music so provocative. And this was Chinese music at its best. Wu laid down his fan softly, and stood listening, his head thrust a little towards the sound. Mrs. Gregory listened too for a moment,
