Only the night before, in the dining room of the Hong-Kong Hotel, she had watched him empty glass after glass of whisky, and shudder and shudder. At times he was brilliant and masterful, talked round and over every one, and would have been domineering if he had not been extraordinarily kindly; at times he was almost monosyllabic, and defeated Miss Garvice’s most skilful attempts to draw him out. Her roving eagerness was at all times shaded with shyness, reserve, repression. And talking of every conceivable thing. “If you speak—farewell. Before or after?” Lucy paled. A pity you did not think to tell me that part of the tale at the outset.
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