Megan sipped her tea and considered this last remark, coming so flatly from the apologetic little Mr. Jackson. It is always so easy to mock at intolerance because quite naturally each one of us would prefer to be treated with tolerance. In fact, we much prefer tolerance to mercy. Mercy is forced to recognize that justice exists; tolerance is indifferent to it. As to Mr. Jackson's statement, obviously they were here to enlighten China. To assume the apologetic attitude, the humorous, the tolerant attitude, would in his case be merely a flabby cowardice. "Of course, that is what we are here for," she repeated staunchly, feeling however that she had not entirely clarified the issue in her mind. Mrs. Jackson complained of a headache and took the paper over to a sofa, on which she took a slightly reclining attitude. "Will, do you remember Mrs. Walsh's headaches?" she said. "Well, do you know how she finally cured them? She knew an old country woman back in Wales who kept a special flock of sheep and a special bed of saffron. I can't remember what this old woman did, but it seems she gathered this saffron, and then sheared the sheep from whatever part of the sheep you had the pain, all at a certain period of the moon. Then she tied this wool around the saffron and sent it to you. Well, Mrs. Walsh got some from the sheep's head and she has never had a headache since. I wanted to send for some myself," she turned to Megan, "but Mr. Jackson wouldn't hear of it. Of course he was right, but I still have headaches." Mr. Jackson was worried that this story had been told before Megan. He looked at her a little anxiously as he said to his wife: "It would have been an outrage for a woman of your training to consider such a thing. If I were you I wouldn't think anything more about it." "I'm not thinking about it, I only said I still have headaches." "I'd rather you had a headache than indulge in a gross superstition." "Yes, I'm sure you would," said Mrs. Jackson, "but then of course, it is my headache." Megan had finished her tea and had just lighted a cigarette. As she blew the first smoke through her lips, she was reminded of the tea hour at home, and the cigarettes she and her father enjoyed together when he came in from his study, tired and sometimes harassed. She was not listening very intently to the rather involved conversation, except to say to herself that Mrs. Jackson was displaying considerable skill in muddling things, when she noticed they had both stopped and were looking at her. They seemed a little embarrassed, as simple people are when what they consider an impropriety has been committed in their presence. In the place where there were so few white ladies it had evidently not been brought to their notice that a lady could smoke a cigarette. Because she was their guest Megan crushed it out on the rim of her cup, but she was annoyed with them nevertheless; it seemed to her they carried intolerance a little too far.