She was suddenly silent, twisting the leaf still in her hands. He would rather have had her cry, Mr. Bolliver thought, for her face frightened him. He looked once around the quiet garden, the seaport garden, where gulls flew above the elms and harbor fog was beginning to dim the farthest lilac bushes.
"We are both going to China," he said quietly; "you and I, at once. Er—it's high time I went to look after my own business," he added in an apologetic sort of way, half to himself.
But Jane did not hear that explanation. She was crying at last, standing very straight and still, with one hand across her face. Mr. Bolliver did not know just what to do. But in a moment he muttered:
"I don't care a snap if she is a proud Ingram, the poor little witch!" And he drew her within his arm.
The fog crept nearer, and with it came the sound of bells. The sea-drift slowly whitened the garden and the elm-tops grew fainter and were lost. Still Jane stood with her hand across her eyes and her forehead bowed upon Mr. Bolliver's sleeve, until he said:
