"What is it?" demanded the woollen-draper, as he returned to the table, and took up a glass. What would he come as? Presently she roused herself with a guilty start from the task of dressing and re-dressing Mr. “Do you like my dress?” “Yes, the dress is beautiful, but you are much more beautiful than any dress. For a few minutes all was silent. It seemed to him that speech would be an anticlimax. ” She went as far as her door, then turned to the window. But the indecision, which had been fatal to his race, was fatal to him. . They’re just a joyous softening of the outline—more beautiful than perfection. He, a Chinaman, troubling himself over Occidental ideas! With his hands in his sleeves, he proceeded on his way. He forgot for the moment his own self-pity, the egotism of his own passionate love. Playing became a way of escape. Weeks hurled past, weeks that turned into months.
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