Another Chinese man stepped from the car and walked around to observe the extent of the disaster with the foolishly hesitant movements of a fowl picking its way about a littered garden. He also was smothered in a heavy coat, but a cap pulled over his eyes hid his face, and as everything he wore was apparently several sizes too large for him, he seemed a boy of sixteen or even younger. He and the Chinese man were about to enter into a consultation when the French sergeant walked up and, brushing curtly between them, began to question the Chinese man. The boy moved away and the man answered the sergeant, smiling as though their meeting furnished an unexpected but agreeable opportunity for conversation. Finally he took a paper from his pocket and showed it to the sergeant. The sergeant examined it, then looked up at him, looked him over, and with deliberate mockery saluted him. The Chinese man continued to smile, though his smile now was not directed at the sergeant; it became diffused, meditative, touching rather some particularly uncertain aspect of humanity just revealed to him. He turned away. In touching his forehead to return the salute he had discovered his fingers to be smeared with blood and this further reminder of the hazards of life seemed to deepen his meditation into melancholy. His smile vanished. "Annoying," he murmured once more. From the Ford which had stopped a few yards up the road jumped a vigorous, black-bearded priest in a black soutane. He ran toward them and, paying no attention to any one else, bent at once over the chauffeur whom he laid out flat on the ground, uttering loud exclamations. Megan knew that the chauffeur was undeniably the real, if the less interesting sufferer, but she felt that the Chinese man had met with an unmerited slight from the French sergeant. And he too had been actually hurt. She exclaimed impulsively: "Please take my handkerchief," and drew a clean folded one from the pocket of her cardigan. The Chinese man answered, "Thank you, but I have one." He took a large handkerchief out of his own pocket, unfolding it to its full size and displaying a character embroidered in the corner. Something in his gesture made Megan realize her offer had implied that he could not possess a handkerchief. She was resentful, not only because he had checked her impulse but he had also made it seem a bit absurd. She turned away from him abruptly and joined the priest. The Senegalese and the French sergeant strolled over but they only stood looking down while the priest felt the chauffeur's body for broken bones. Megan knelt beside him in the attitude of one ready to help and even with some reluctance ran her fingers over the chauffeur's skull through bristling, oily black hair. The priest lifted an eyelid. Then he said to her in French: "And the skull, is it broken?" "I don't think so," said Megan; "perhaps you had better examine it."