Only the night before, in the dining room of the Hong-Kong Hotel, she had watched him empty glass after glass of whisky, and shudder and shudder. The lights rolled over, and were extinguished. There he sat, cheerfully friendly in his sex’s freedom—the man she loved, the one man she cared should unlock the way to the wide world for her imprisoned feminine possibilities, and he seemed regardless that she stifled under his eyes; he made a jest of all this passionate insurgence of the souls of women against the fate of their conditions. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. There was no need of sowing suspicion when he wasn't really certain there were grounds for it. We are alone, Sir Rowland," he added, snuffing the candles, glancing cautiously around, and lowering his tone, "and what you confide to me shall never transpire,—at least to your disadvantage. But if you don't want to get up, maybe three times ten days. . The evening was warm and inviting, one meant to be spent outdoors.
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