She moved slowly up to the bed, examining it curiously; and again he
understood her look of doubt--in China beds were called _kang_, or
stoves, from the fact that they were more often than not a platform of
brick with an opening beneath for hot coals. She fingered the ball fringe
of the coverlet, and then turned with amazement to the soft pillow. A
hand with the stone bracelet falling back from her smooth wrist rose to
the complicated edifice of her headdress.

"Your pillow is coming along from the ship," he told her; "the women here
do up their hair every morning."

She considered this with geranium lips slightly parted on flawless teeth,
and nodded slowly. The westering sun striking through the window
overlooking the Common illuminated her with a flat gold unreality.

"I'll have a day bed brought for you," he continued, realizing that, as
the result of fortunate chance, she understood most of what he said
without an actual command of the individual words. In reply she sank
before him in the deep Manchu gesture with one knee sweeping the floor,
the humility of her posture dignified by grace. He touched the crystal
globe of an earring, pinched her chin, in the half light manner by which
he instinctively expressed his affection for her. She was calm and
pleased. "Taou Yuen," he continued, "you miss Shanghai, with the wall of
ten gates and the river Woosung stuck full of masts. You'll never think
Salem is a paradise like Soochow."

"This is your city," she replied, slowly choosing the words. "Your
ancestors are here." There was not a shade of regret in her voice or
manner. He tried once more, and as vainly as ever, to penetrate the veil