Bleak House
The house was cold brown, in a garden of gravel, and looked down a drop of cliff. Beyond and below was Hong-Kong, green and white, the blue harbor and the many-colored ships. "It is one of the places I like to call home," Beauling said affectionately; "we'll see why."
Wareing saw. The door flew open, and out flew children. They seized Beauling by the hands and knees, and were swung squeaking into the air and kissed. They yowled with delight. Behind them, smiling, were their young father and mother.
Within the bleak house were warm hearts, poverty that was not ashamed—and Griswold B. Wareing thought that he understood.
There were times during that week when long and serious pow-wows were held by Griswold B. Wareing, who could float a national loan, and Tomas Beauling, who had jollied his way through yellowest China and beheld the coal-fields of Shen-
