“Tut, tut!” he said. He heard the woman talking again. In his condition the boy apparently had been as safe as in the lock-up. The pole-chair caravan resumed its journey. Earles drew out his cheque book. Chairs were overturned. She told me the tale the other night, and I've only elaborated it. “The man is dangerous. The windows were grated, the doors barred; each room had the name as well as the appearance of a cell; and the very porter who stood at the gate, habited like a jailer, with his huge bunch of keys at his girdle, his forbidding countenance and surly demeanour seemed to be borrowed from Newgate. “And what on earth,” he said, “do you think the world is made of? Why do you think I have been doing things for you? The abstract pleasure of goodness? Are you one of the members of that great white sisterhood that takes and does not give? The good accepting woman! Do you really suppose a girl is entitled to live at free quarters on any man she meets without giving any return?” “I thought,” said Ann Veronica, “you were my friend. The Cantonese, excepting in the shops where he expects profit, always resents the intrusion of the fan-quei—foreign devil. You are an artist by the Divine right of birth, but whatever form of expression may come to you at some time it will not be painting.
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