Squire and master. "Enschede!" he called. Their journey had made them indolent, the afternoon was warm, and it seemed impossible to breathe a sweeter air. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. Inexplicably there flashed into vision the Chinese wedding procession in the narrow, twisted streets of the city, that first day: the gorgeous palanquin, the tomtoms, the weird music, the ribald, jeering mob that trailed along behind. "Poor Mrs. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand.
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