silver sugar-tongs with slow dexterity. "So!" he held out the perfected cup. "It is the choicest growth of the Empire, Mrs. Gregory, sun-dried with the flowers of jasmine."
She took the cup, and he took up his. Just as she was forcing herself to drink—his own cup almost to his lip—he said with the same suave manner, "Have you no curiosity, Mrs. Gregory, to learn the name"—a poisonous change came in his voice—"of my daughter's seducer?"
The Englishwoman put down her cup quickly, with a hand so unnerved and trembling that it scarcely served to guide its small burden. She tried to drop her eyes, but she couldn't—he held them with his relentlessly. "I don't understand you," she faltered. "Your—your manner is so strange."
Wu said nothing, but he smiled into her gaze coldly, and she rose with a shudder. Wu smiled at her still, and with a sudden wild cry she darted to the sliding doors and beat on them hysterically. But she realized at once that they were locked and were strong. And she turned around, at bay but hopeless, leaning her back against the door, and faced Wu miserably, her smarting hands hanging limp at her sides.
Wu Li Chang unfolded his fan and began to churn the air towards his face with it.
No European ever has understood what his fan means to a Chinese. Probably no European ever will be able to understand that. With their fans the Chinese hide emotion, express emotion, and, when it reaches the danger point, give it vent. Often a Chinese man's frail, tiny fan is his safety valve. China's greatest warriors have carried their fans into battle. Criminals fan themselves on the execution ground. Frightened Chinese girls, in
