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 from hers. "Have you missed me? Why did you leave me so? How are you, dear?"

Nang Ping smiled oddly. She said nothing.

And Low Soong called from the bridge, "Chillee! Chillee!"

Women's voices, deeper throated than Nang's and Low's, European voices, could be heard coming that way, and Basil said nervously, "Yes," adding in English what Low had just said, "They are coming. I shall leave them when they are going—make some excuse, and I shall go and hide in the pagoda by the lake"

"Oh, that pagoda—by the lake!" Nang Ping interjected softly, but her voice was grim.

"I shall see them pass, and when they have quite gone I will come back. Wait for me when they are gone. I must speak to you. Remember!" He moved away from her, and went and stood beside an old stone lantern, as if examining and admiring it for the first time.

"Low Soong!" Nang Ping said breathlessly, and Low hurried to her from the bridge and put her arms about her. And they stood so for a moment.

But the voices and the footsteps were close now, and Nang Ping released herself from Low's comforting arms, and stood gracious and alone.

This was one of Florence Gregory's young days—one of her very youngest. Still in her early forties, she looked a radiant twenty-five as she stood an instant on the bridge, and then came gayly down it. And her radiant English beauty—blue eyes, golden hair, cream and rose face—looked all the more radiant because of the delicate gray of her gown—a dress of artificial simplicity, Paris-made. It had not cost as much as Chinese Nang's fantastic clothes had, but it had cost a great deal, and it was the more perishable.