Baltazar walked home, her last words echoing in his ears. His absence in China would naturally make a difference to her. She had become part of his household. Godfrey, to whom she had given a mother’s heart, was indefinitely in France and alienated from her by his resentment of her breach of confidence. She had identified herself so unreservedly with the fortunes of the House of Baltazar that now, cut adrift, she would be on the high seas, derelict. What could he do to mitigate her loneliness? If he died, she would be well provided for. He had made his will some months ago. But he had every hope of living for many robust years. What indeed would become of the beloved woman now that their new attachments to life were broken? The nurse’s career, in which she had spent the splendid energies of her young womanhood? If Godfrey were in London, he could commend her, with authority, to his care. But Godfrey’s vanishing to France was the essence of the whole business. There remained only Quong Ho. His appreciation of the comic put Quong Ho out of court. He entered his house in Sussex Gardens remorseful for lack of consideration for Marcelle. But, hang it all, one couldn’t think of everything at once. If she had cared enough for him to marry him, well—there would have been the Light that never was on Sea or Land. He would have snapped his fingers at the doings of the little planet Earth. He would have been Master of the Universe. But that was not to be. Either all in all as a wife or not at all. An irrevocable decision. It was not Marcelle’s fault that she did not love him in that way. . . . No use thinking of it. It was all over. They had drifted, however, into an exquisite companionship, as exquisite to her—he had no false modesty about it—as to him. And now that was over. What was to become of Marcelle? He was filling his pipe when Quong Ho entered the library with his little deferential bow. “Sir,” said he, “may I be allowed to commit an indiscretion?” “You’ll do it so discreetly,” said Baltazar, “that it won’t matter. Fire ahead.” “In the event of your leaving this country on a mission to the Far East——” “What the devil do you know about it?” asked Baltazar. “In high Chinese circles in London it is common knowledge,” replied Quong Ho. “Together with lots of other things concerning me, I suppose.” “You have many times observed,” said Quong Ho, “that my countrymen are afflicted with an abnormal thirst for unessential information.” In spite of his heavy-heartedness, Baltazar smiled grimly. “Well, suppose I am going to China. What of it?” “May I postpone Cambridge degree and Fellowship for several years and accompany you?” Baltazar’s brow grew black. “Isn’t England good enough for you?”