she and Ah Wong between them had contrived to banish the yesterday's ravages from her face—almost.
Basil looked shockingly ill. Any eyes less self-satisfied than a Robert Gregory's must have seen it.
"You should go and lie down," his mother greeted him.
"Yes, I must," he nodded, "when you've done with me."
Ah Wong went out and closed the door.
Florence Gregory waited then for him to begin. It was the first unkindness she had ever done him. But she was very, very tired. And in the sleepless watches of the night, she had seen clearly Wu Li Chang's point of view, and not altogether without some sharp, acrid conviction that it had some justice on its side—rough, terrible, primeval, barbaric, but still undeniable justice of a sort.
Mrs. Gregory waited for her son to speak, and he did not speak soon.
"Are you all right, Mother?" he said at last.
"I am very tired," she told him.
"Yes—yes, of course you are. But"
"Oh—yes," she said gently, "I am all right."
"Sure?"
"Yes, Basil!"
"Quite, Mother?" he persisted.
"Yes, Basil!" she told him again, with emphasis this time. And then she smiled a little, very sadly, thinking how sardonic it was that he should be standing there cross-examining her.
"Thank God!" he whispered fervently—all that was best in him welling up in gratitude that his mother had escaped a more cruel wrong than he had inflicted on murdered Nang. For Nang had loved him!
