"I am so sorry for you," he said. "I am not responsible for what has happened. But I am charging myself to take care of you and you will not be harmed." He made a slight gesture with one hand, expressing an apology more delicate than his words. Megan stared at his hand. The beauty of it was strangely familiar. The amah put another towel on her head, and the lady in the green satin coat at intervals held the tea to her lips. Megan sipped it slowly. There was a significance to all this which escaped her. "Haven't I seen you somewhere before, or am I imagining----" "No," said the General, and he smiled outright, "you do not imagine. You were kind enough to offer me a handkerchief." "But of course. You were going into the Concession. The wrecked car." He and the lady nodded. To decide what she was doing in a train with the man of the wrecked car, with the lady of the green coat, was too much for her. To ask them did not occur to her. But she had seen them before. That made the situation reasonable enough that she was able to accept it for the time being. "Oh, I guess it is all right," she said vaguely. They nodded again, both smiling to reassure her. Megan closed her eyes. She heard them murmur to each other in Chinese. When she opened her eyes the lady was sitting across from her, over her knees the amah had spread an embroidered towel and she was feeding herself with chopsticks out of little bowls, held close to her mouth, which the amah handed her in turn. The General was not eating. He smoked a cigarette and, his head leaning back against the cushions, blew smoke rings toward the ceiling. Megan studied the amazing, wasteful beauty of the hand with the cigarette. She remembered its inefficiency when touching a bleeding forehead, when holding open a car door, yet it remained an exquisite instrument.