She said, in her quiet way, “Oh, hello!” And then, with a quick sidelong glance at him, accepted the chair he offered. He seemed uncertain as to whether he would go or stay. Lowering her lids, she studied him. He was standing the excitement well, even improving. His carriage was better; he stood up well on his strong young legs. And he was quieter, better in hand, though of course the never-governed, long overstimulated emotions would not be lying very deep beneath this new, more manly surface. He was very good-looking, really a typical American boy. He stood now, fingering the petals of a dahlia and gazing out astern into the luminous night. She pondered the question of exerting herself again to win him. The money was there, plenty of it. He would be as helpless as ever in her experienced hands. And the mere use of her skill in trapping and stripping him would be enjoyable.... He was lingering. She decided in the negative. He would surely become tempestuous. And as surely, if she permitted that, he would discover the pearls. And--again the thrill of mastery swept through her finely strung nerves--she had those. They were enough. But they must be better hidden. There was her problem still, a problem that aught at any instant become delicately acute. She considered it, lying comfortably back in the chair, luxuriating in the richly blended scent of the crowded blossoms, while her nearly closed eyes studied the restless boy. Abruptly he turned. What now? Was he about to become tempestuous all on his own? It would be anything but out of character. Her slight muscles tightened, but her face betrayed no emotion, would have betrayed none in a more searching light than this soft flood from the moon. He was sentimental over the Manchu princess, now, of course. She hadn't missed that. But in the case of an ungoverned boy, she well knew, the emotion itself could be vastly more important than its immediate object But now she was to meet with a small surprise. “Look here!” he began, crude, naive, as always, “there's something--perhaps--I ought to tell you. I tried to carry on with you. You've got a right to think anything about me--” At least he was keeping his voice down. She lay still; let him talk. “--But I've changed. Smile at that, if you want to!” She did smile faintly, but only at his clear, clean ignorance of the insult that underlay his words. “--I _was_ on the loose. It's different now. I'm going to try to do something with my life. Whatever happens--I mean however my luck may seem to turn--” He could hardly go on with this. The next few words were swallowed down. It was plain enough that he couldn't think clearly. And he couldn't possibly know that he was giving her an opening through which, within a very few moments, she was to see the outline of the policy she must pursue during these difficult days to come on the junk.