several there were sorry to hear it. And Florence Grey, who had been married the week before, heard it on her honeymoon, and felt a little saddened for a few moments. He had always seemed a nice boy, and he was so far from home.
Once he lived for three months in Tours, alone with the people and the language.
After Oxford he traveled carefully, as he had done everything so far, sometimes alone, sometimes with Muir, searching Europe for every experience that might serve his grandfather's desire and plan.
When Wu was twenty-four he went home. James Muir had half expected to be asked to go also, but Wu did not suggest it.
His European phase was over, and he wished to be alone with his own people in his own land.
Bland and courteous to all, yet he spoke little on the long voyage, but sat looking out across the waters towards China. And he did not trouble to leave the boat either at Malta or at Colombo.
But he was not dreaming as he sat brooding, looking out to sea. He was planning, for himself and for his race.
There were international clouds ahead. Wu saw them.
A week in Hong Kong—he had much to do there—and then he pushed across the mainland that was still China, where feet of Europe rarely trod, and journeyed to his home.
When he had paid his long respects to the graves and the tablets, he set his house in order, and the estate. But indeed all had been well kept in his absence. It seemed as if the old mandarin's spirit still brooded there and his adamant will still ruled.
To visit all he owned took Wu some months, though he
