"The sword with rather a gruesome history"
"Oh! don't, please, Mr. Wu," she broke in, "please—I—I couldn't bear it now.
"But, my dear Mrs. Gregory," he persisted blandly, "good news will keep. Time is not pressing. Besides, tea has not yet been brought in."
"Tea!" she panted distractedly; "oh! Mr. Wu, you must please excuse me."
"I beg you to excuse me," the Chinese corrected, a little arrogantly. "For countless generations my ancestors have drunk tea at this hour, and our tradition must be kept up. You have been long enough in China to know, perhaps, that tea-drinking with us as a matter of ceremony is an indispensable custom"
"Yes, I do know that," she said quickly, "but—I"
"And so," Wu continued pleasantly, "whilst we are waiting for tea I will tell you the story of the sword." And he moved as if to lift it down.
With half-closed eyes, wearied with terror, Florence Gregory half crouched against the table, prepared to listen. Her rings were cutting into her hands. Her handkerchief lay at her feet, a ball of rag. Suddenly Wu turned from the weapon, left it hanging in its place and swung back to her; standing behind her, his hands on the table, almost touching her, bending over her, he said, "By the way, Mrs. Gregory, you must love your son very much."
"Oh!" she told him, rising and turning to him with supplication in voice and gesture, "I do."
"Otherwise you would not be here?" the Chinese asked her calmly.
"Otherwise I should not be here," she said a little proudly, stung for the moment back to a sort of self-assertiveness.
