Again in his room he found his wife bending over a gorgeous heap of
satins, bright mazarines and ornaments. "We'll go down to supper soon,"
he told her. Already there were signs of her presence about the room:
the chest of drawers was covered with gold and jade and green amber,
painted paper fans set on ivory and tortoise shell, and lacquer fan
boxes; coral hairpins, sandalwood combs, silver rouge pots and rose
quartz perfume bottles with canary silk cords and tassels. On a familiar
table was her pipe, wound in gilt wire, and the flowered satin tobacco
case. An old coin was hanging at the head of the bed, a charm against
evil spirits; and on a stand was the amethyst image of Kuan-Yin _pu
tze_, the Goddess of Mercy.

Taou Yuen sank on the floor with a little embarrassed laugh at the
confusion in which he had surprised her. "Let your attitude be grave," he
quoted from the Book of Rites with a pretended severity. Her amusement
rose in a ripple of mirth. He opened his desk, rearranging the disorder
brought about by its transportation; and, when he turned, she was
prostrate in the last rays of the sun. "_O-me-to-Fuh_," she breathed;
"_O-me-to-Fuh_," the invocation to Buddha. This at an end she announced,
"Now I am grave and respectful for your family."

Supper, Gerrit admitted to himself, promised to be a painful occasion;
conversation rose sporadically and quickly died in glances of
irrepressible curiosity directed at his wife. She, on the contrary,
showed no pointed interest in her surroundings; and, in her hesitating
slurred English, answered Rhoda's few questions without putting any in
return. Camilla preserved a frozen silence; Sidsall was pleasantly
conciliating in her attitude toward the novel situation; Janet, her lips
moving noiselessly, was rapt in amazement; and Laurel smiled, abashed at
meeting Taou Yuen's eyes.