“Then I’ll tell you,” Snow said quietly, “if you will regard it as professional confidence.” “Of course, of course. But—you know? Out with it, for Heaven’s sake, man!” But the physician’s eager voice was more skeptical than eager. “Homesickness,” Snow told him. “By Jove, you don’t believe that!” Dr. Foster was openly contemptuous. But, even so, he was interested. “Go on,” he commanded. “How do you make that out?” “I know Sên King-lo well, and I know his race,” Snow replied. “Well—well,” the physician said after a pause. “I wonder—we might have tried it—strange things turn out true ones sometimes—I wonder—we might have tried it—sending him back to China—but, I’m afraid it’s too late now. By Jove, I wish I’d been on the track of this case six months ago!” “No,” Sir Charles Snow told him, “you might not have tried it. He would not go.” “Tut! tut! A sick man must do what he’s told, to get well.” Snow made no reply. “I’d give a good deal to have been called in sooner—six months ago or more,” the physician repeated. “You’d need to have been called in nearly five years ago,” Snow retorted, “and then you would have failed. I was on the case five years ago,” he added bitterly, “and I failed.” “Indeed,” Dr. Foster remarked limply. Harley Street does not over-value or over-esteem lay practitioners. CHAPTER LVI They were alone in the garden at sunset. They had been sitting here, on the broad garden bench, hand in hand, since tea, but saying little. King-lo had left her a few moments ago and had gathered the rose that she was wearing at her breast, where he had pinned it. “The sweetpeas need thinning over there,” Lo said, pointing. Then he drew his hand across her face. “Ruby!” His eyes smiled into hers, and then, like a tired child, he laid his head on her shoulder. And when she understood—it was some time—before her tears came—his wife bent and kissed him on the lips. * * * * * When the bell began to toll there was scarcely a window in the village at which a hand did not draw down a blind. * * * * * When Sir Charles Snow’s letter reached Ho-nan, Sên Ya Tin proclaimed a year of mourning. Every lute was put away. Every woman laid aside her gay rich garments, her stickpins, and her face paints. All the Sêns—women, men and children, and all their people—were clad in hempen sackcloth, and their rice was plainly cooked and scanted. They gave Sên King-lo his funeral, the funeral of his rank, in the homestead of his fathers. Sên Ya Tin walked behind a costly empty coffin, weeping, wailing, moaning, tearing her white disheveled hair, and she staggered as she walked. And all his kindred followed her, and all their priests, servants and peasantry.