Here were woods in rain, pines with soft tufted grey needles ... here was a great view of the winding Yangtze between the wet trunks of trees. Here were safe and peaceful foreign houses. And Lucy McTab, stiff and untidy, at the top of a steep flight of steps. “Oh, I thought you were Tam coming. How do you do, Mr. Williams? How do you do, Stone?” No sound of Emily running along the verandah to cry, “Edward—Edward—E-yee—E-yee—” That was her joyful noise. But there was no sound of it now. Lucy’s voice without that accompaniment seemed quite meaningless to Edward. Lucy stood awkwardly patting her hair. She was not pleased to see Edward and Stone. No plain statement could have made this more transparently clear than did her glazed politeness. Edward was seized with a panic of dumbness; he could not utter the name of Emily in this nervous, constricted atmosphere. “Well, so you’ve found your way here,” said Lucy. “It’s a long way.” “Yes.” “I thought your father expected you to wait for him in Peking, Stone.” “Yump. I guess he did.” “This is a dreadful house to receive visitors in. Look at the furniture. Tam says it was probably all bought at the ten cent store. Still, there are advantages in living here. We can have dogs here for the first time for years. I do adore dogs. I feel ... perfect, somehow, if there is a dog in the room. Sometimes I’m shocked to think how long I spend looking at the way a dog’s hair grows on his face ... or looking at him crossing his paws in that patient way. I just look and look.” There was a dog on the hearth, a handsome Eurasian dog. Edward crossed the room and looked blankly down on its golden forehead. One was glad when one could like anything that Lucy liked, or in any way flatter her. He noticed that she shrank as he came near her as though she thought he might kiss her or insult her. “These Chinese,” went on Lucy, “are such a weird unreasonable race. I suppose one will get used to their funny ways in time. But this fighting is dreadful.” “Yes.” “However, Tam is getting a lot of work done. He is writing a book about little wars.” Her voice changed as she spoke of Tam. “It is really a treat listening to him. I often think what a pity it is that every word he says just casually to me can’t be preserved. All about war and politics and ... psychoanalysis and so on.... He just sits and smokes—he is an inveterinary smoker—and all these brilliant opinions pour out. People would pay to hear them, I’m sure. Perhaps I am no judge, but I really do think his book, when it is finished, will be acknowledged to be one of the most meretricious books of the century ... you have no idea——” She checked herself. She had forgotten to be shy and ladylike, she corrected this oversight. “Where’s Tam?” asked Stone, whose feelings seemed to be a reproduction in miniature of Edward’s. “He’s gone for a walk. He adores rain.” “Where’s Emerly?” asked Stone.