She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. “Well?” she said, sitting down again. ‘You’re either mad, or in love. That was how she projected it, and in general terms it seemed plausible and possible. But such is the perversity of the human that frequently thereafter he purposely crooked the part in his hair, to give her the excuse to fetch the comb. It was on the eve of that memorable rebellion which broke forth, two months later, in Scotland. To reach the Sha-mien—and particularly the Hotel Victoria—one crossed a narrow canal, always choked with rocking sampans over and about which swarmed yellow men and women and children in varied shades of faded blue cotton.
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