by Japanese women, doll-like, stepping mincingly on wooden clogs; by
Eurasians, delicate featured, stamped with degeneracy; by full-bodied
South-Sea-Island women, flower-crowned and brown-skinned. All these were
blotted out by a grotesque and terrible nightmare brood--frowsy,
shuffling creatures from the pavements of Whitechapel, gin-bloated hags
of the stews, and all the vast hell's following of harpies, vile-mouthed
and filthy, that under the guise of monstrous female form prey upon
sailors, the scrapings of the ports, the scum and slime of the human pit.

"Won't you sit down, Mr. Eden?" the girl was saying. "I have been
looking forward to meeting you ever since Arthur told us. It was brave
of you--"

He waved his hand deprecatingly and muttered that it was nothing at all,
what he had done, and that any fellow would have done it. She noticed
that the hand he waved was covered with fresh abrasions, in the process
of healing, and a glance at the other loose-hanging hand showed it to be
in the same condition. Also, with quick, critical eye, she noted a scar
on his cheek, another that peeped out from under the hair of the
forehead, and a third that ran down and disappeared under the starched
collar. She repressed a smile at sight of the red line that marked the
chafe of the collar against the bronzed neck. He was evidently unused to
stiff collars. Likewise her feminine eye took in the clothes he wore,
the cheap and unaesthetic cut, the wrinkling of the coat across the
shoulders, and the series of wrinkles in the sleeves that advertised
bulging biceps muscles.

While he waved his hand and muttered that he had done nothing at all, he
was obeying her behest by trying to get into a chair. He found time to
admire the ease with which she sat down, then lurched toward a chair