"Yes. Civil engineering. Mentally but not physically competent. Had
to give up the work and take to this. I'm not noble; so my
honourable ancestors will not turn over in their graves."

"Graves." Spurlock pointed in the sloping fields outside the walls.
"I've counted ten coffins so far."

"Ah, yes. The land about these walls is a common graveyard. Every
day in the year you will witness such scenes. There are no funerals
among the poor, only burials. And many of these deaths could be
avoided if it were not for superstition. Superstition is the
Chinese Reaper. Rituals instead of medicines. Sometimes I try to
talk. I might as well try to build a ladder to heaven. We must take
the children--of any race--if we would teach knowledge. Age is set,
impervious to innovations."

The Chinaman paused. He saw that his words were falling upon dull
ears. He turned to observe what this object was that had so
unexpectedly diverted the young man's attention. It was the girl.
She was standing before a window, against the background of the
rain-burdened April sky. There was enough contra-light to render
her ethereal.

Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate
or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. He was
always word-building, a metaphorist, lavish with singing
adjectives; but often he built in confusion because it was
difficult to describe something beautiful in a new yet simple way.