"Yes. I only saw him for about ten minutes. It was in Peking a year ago—the strangest, saddest and longest face in the world. It looks up at you, for he is maimed. I could not speak when he first looked up at me. Something leaped in my chest. I wanted to put my arms about him and lead him to a chair. It wouldn’t do to tell that impulse—only to a woman.... The name of Nifton Bend was repeating in my mind. It was in a room of a native professor’s house in the Congrou section of Peking. There were students about, but all became hushed with the Hunchback’s presence. Cushions were brought and we sat down around him. I remembered his name in connection with the military text-book now. That came with a jump. He was young and yet long ago I had read another book of his, which, until he was here before me, I had not related to the author of the text-book. It was during the college days in California when that other book came to me, and I loved the Chinese setting. The book itself, I did not remember. It was half a story, half a fairy-tale, but from it, the spirit of China had come to me—something related to the emerging of the great gray moth. This was only the beginning of recollections. I had heard this man spoken of as the spirit of Young China, as the organiser and leader of the new Chinese army, as a represser of the Japanese influence. This frail and broken body seemed, in the extravagance of my thoughts of that moment, to hold the future of the Empire. I saw him somehow as the embodiment of the depth and genius of the yellow race. They called him _The General_. "He was looking at me with a dead, expressionless gaze. An instant before his eyes had been burning, and there had been a smile on the woman-mouth of him. Only the pale angular jaw and the narrow temples had not changed. I was startled at his look. His head made me think of a wolf-hound—that long ironed head. It was not until normal consciousness and the smile returned that I realised that his lapse of expression meant that he was _seeing into me_—that I had been appraised body and soul—" Romney talked coldly now. He felt the entire passion of the woman turned from his own story—that he had touched something that took her farther from himself, if nearer to her dream. He caught a glimpse of what it would mean to hold the heart of this woman in all its power. It was like Romney to make as much as possible now of the opposing influence, yet he hurried through: