That she was provoked by his interference was obvious. As he understood it, folks saw in two or three days all there was to see of Canton. His frowning gaze came back to her. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. “We have,” he said, “to be the utmost friends. The Morning Post was hungry for governesses and nursery governesses, but held out no other hopes; the Daily Telegraph that morning seemed eager only for skirt hands. It was scarcely likely that she would have accepted his aid. It seemed to show a want of affection, to be a deliberate and unmerited disregard, to justify the reprisal of being hurt. “Ask me nothing.
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