“I did not,” Lo said sadly, “take Mrs. Yen out to lunch. It would not have been permitted.” Ivy wanted a second cup of tea, but she would not take it for fear that Sên would miss the sugar-basin. She always took three lumps, and she knew that he always watched her hands. So she munched a sandwich instead and quenched her thirst with a mango. “I lunched with a lady, though.” His wife knew that he wanted her to say: “Who was she?” and because she knew it, she said nothing. And because she would not ask, he would not tell her—yet. They often played that game, and Sên usually won. If an English woman could wait, so could a Chinese man. “Is the home mail in, Lo?” “No, not even signaled yet, dear.” Sên looked about the pretty room as he lit her cigarette. They had finished their tea. “Ruby,” he said, as he gave it to her, well and truly lit, “I believe you’d make home out of a soap-box and an old coffee sack.” “I’d try for you, Lo,” she told him. “I’ll match this against any room on the island,” he added. “But you furnished it,” his wife reminded him. “Yes—by wire. But I didn’t _make_ it. You did that. I didn’t rearrange it. I didn’t put those flowers in that vase or Ruben’s picture in its lacquer frame—” Sên broke off, silenced by a sudden grinding thought. He had seen and understood the look in Chinese eyes when they first had seen that photograph, had seen and quickly looked away. Ah well—— “But,” he added, “I did bring the one perfect thing in the room, and put it here.” Mrs. Sên looked about her drawing-room in surprise. What had Lo actually chosen and bought that was here! Not the cabinet, not the screen, not the quaint and costly teapot with a writhing dragon for handle and a slender snake curled up asleep on its top, not the lovely cups with butterflies poised on the delicate rims and a dear little red “ladybird” inside each fragile cup. What—then she understood and giggled again—a pretty sound from her, if not a pretty word, and shook her clasped hands at him in the pretty Chinese way he’d taught her. But not even for such a compliment (and they’d been married almost five years now!) would she ask the question he was waiting for her to ask. “I lunched, all alone, with a lady,” he said at last, “and she is coming to lunch with you tomorrow.” Still Mrs. Sên waited. “You used to know her.” “Oh—some one turned up from London.” “No, from Washington.” Ivy threw him a mock-horrified look. “Sên King-lo, you have been lunching with Emmeline Hamilton! She’ll sue you for breach of promise. What fun for Hongkong! Lady Montsurat’s face will be a picture.” Sên laughed. Then he drew the carnation from his coat and leaned towards her and tucked it in Ruby’s frock. Then she knew that it was some one she had cared for, cared for very much. And she cared for so few people—for so very few women. “Lo,” she whispered, “it isn’t—it isn’t——” “Yes, it _is_. Dr. Ray is in Hongkong, and Miss Julia is with her!”