Sên King-lo went on with his home-going. “To see the silk-worms gorging on the mulberry-trees, to see the red poppies growing—not much use for opium, but you remember the sea of color they make, lakes and oceans of it—and the fire-weed—to hear the sound the mallets make when they strike the bells—the gongs too—in the old temple courtyards that used to be my playground when I was a boy—” He broke off and passed the decanter. CHAPTER XXXV Sên King-lo did not sleep that night, torn between two vibrant emotions—sorrow at the impending separation from his wife and joy to go home again. Perhaps Ruby Sên caught in her sleep something of his double strain, for she woke as the first light filtered through their loose-drawn curtains; and her waking was sharp and instant, wide-eyed at once, which it rarely was. Usually she stirred and dozed, coming back very gradually to the life of brazened day, as the convolvulus sleepily unfurls its twisted spiral to the dawn. She was fast asleep—then, wide awake. Sên King-lo turned and took her in his arms, and told her where he was going, when and why. Her dark eyes sparkled with quick pleasure. But she exclaimed chidingly, “And that was what was in those two letters you had from China by the first post yesterday! And you’ve only told me now! A whole day wasted, and with all the packing to do in no time at all! Lo, you are simply wicked.” “Since when have you done my packing, Mrs. Sên? And I seem to remember that I not unfrequently have done yours. My mistake no doubt.” Ivy giggled and tried to shake him. There was an interlude. “I shall not take much luggage,” Lo told her. “_Your_ luggage!” his wife retorted contemptuously. “Two handkerchiefs and a razor and a book of poems—I know _your_ luggage. But you don’t imagine that I _and_ Baby _and_ Nurse are going half-way across the world with only one suitcase between us, do you?” “Dear,” her husband said very gently, “we couldn’t take Baby. It’s too far, the way too hard, whole weeks of discomfort, if not worse—for you and him, I mean. I shall enjoy every rod of it, with my goat-legs—and home at the end of the journey. I never am ill, and, if I were, the smell of Ho-nan would be all the medicine I needed. But we can’t take our frogling off of the doctors’ beats.” “No!” the frogling’s mother instantly agreed. “Oh—Lo—I shan’t like leaving him behind. But—of course—for his own sake—but, oh! Lo—how shall we do it!” “Of course not,” he answered her quickly, with a hand on her hair, “so you’ll have to stay with him, mother-girl.” Ruby Sên slipped from her husband’s arms, thrust them gently but firmly away, and sat up on the pillows, eying her husband. “I am going with you, Lo,” she told him quietly. “No,” he said, a little tensely, “not this time. I can’t take _you_ to China _now_, heart of my heart.” “Why?” “The time isn’t ripe. You wouldn’t be comfortable.” “I should be with you.”