upon the stool again, crying like a tired and frightened child.
The man stood a moment watching her grimly. Her head was bowed and she could not see his face. There was bitter determination on it, remorselessness, but no desire. He moved slowly across the room and closed and fastened the thick screen-slide of the window that looked upon the garden. And now again, except for the high narrow window, through which no one could look out or in, the room was shut and barred from all the rest of the world.
They two were entirely alone.
The mandarin moved slowly back until he stood beside the woman. "Pray compose yourself, dear lady," he said very quietly. "That weakness was unworthy of you, and hardly complimentary to your host." He took her hand quietly in his, and she made no remonstrance, made no attempt to draw her hand away again. He put his other hand on her arm, and pushed her gently down upon her seat, and released his hold.
"I'm so sorry," the woman said brokenly, brushing her hand across her eyes. "I—I am not myself. Please forgive me." Wu flicked that aside with a courteous gesture. "And now," her voice was little more than a whispered gasp, "Mr. Wu, please tell me"
"I am about to do so. Patience!" Wu said silkenly. "In China things move slowly. China is the tortoise of the world, not the hare. I was going to tell you"—he spoke with a deliberation that was a torture in itself.
"Yes?" she interrupted his vindictive procrastination feverishly.
"About that sword." The mandarin pointed to where it hung.
Mrs. Gregory half smothered a moan.
