Ann Veronica ignored her friend’s confusion. The sunshine broke across each shoulder, one lance striking the yellow face of a Chinaman, queueless and dressed in European clothes, the other lance falling squarely upon the face of the man he had journeyed thirteen thousand miles to find. The tourist season would soon be at ebb, and it would be late in September before the tide returned. Only I wish—I wish to-day I was a thousand times, ten thousand times more beautiful. And if he didn’t, what was the good of seeing him? “I wish he was a woman,” she said, “then I could make him my friend. Had she too been flying from something and had accepted this method of escape? But what frying-pan could be equal to this fire? All this led him back to the original circle. There lay upon this stand a book bound in limp black leather—the Holy Bible. He thanked God for this talent of his.
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