Then light footsteps became audible, descending the staircase with a certain deliberation and a faint rustle of skirts. 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. He sat with folded arms and knitted brows, thinking intently. The thought did not occur to her, for all thought had flown out of her head. In Singapore that had been her only dissipation: a dozen pairs of silk stockings. Open that bottle with a blue seal, my dear.
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