Page:Mr. Wu (IA mrwumilnlouisejo00milniala).pdf/279

 Wu watched her, smiling. "Come," he said—almost as he might have spoken to a restless child—"tea is served."

And she turned, in obedience to his voice, and looked at him. "I couldn't, Mr. Wu," she said with plaintive petulance, "I couldn't possibly." The distress in her voice was more than the annoyance.

Wu ignored her words good-naturedly, and began pouring out the tea. "I have sugar and cream, you see, quite in the Western way."

"No—no, I couldn't," she reiterated impatiently, but coming back to the table and watching the cups as he filled them. "Please tell me of my son and let me go."

For answer, the mandarin held out to her a cup of tea. "Pray take this cup of tea, Mrs. Gregory," he said with grave politeness. "Oh! I understand," he added with a slight, chill smile, when she paid no attention to the cup he proffered her. He put it down. "You would prefer to see me drink first." With an inclination of his head to her, he lifted his own cup and drained it at a draught. "So! perhaps that will reassure you." He put his cup down and refilled it. "Pray take the tea," he urged hospitably: "it will not only be refreshing—and your lips look dry and parched—but it will also be a politeness to do so."

She stood looking at him dully, and then sank slowly down on to a stool.

"Sugar—and—cream," the mandarin said brightly. There was more of Mayfair and of Oxford in tone and in manner than there was of Cathay. And the anachronism was gruesome rather than droll, as he stood in his mandarin's robes fanning himself with his left hand (the sons of Han are more nearly ambidextrous than they of any other race) and with his right hand plying the