Beside it was a fat little book bound in age-yellowed vellum. Kate Hallard picked this up and glanced through it, curiously.
“Is this Chinese?” she asked, bewildered.
Helen explained that it was Greek, and the woman laid it down with a weary little laugh.
“I ain’t never been out’n the territory, as I said,” she explained, half defiantly. “Men’s about the only books I ever read, an’ Lord! they’re mostly writ plainer’n that.”
“I haven’t known many,” Helen answered, “except my father—and one or two others.”
“One or two’s likely to be samples o’ the rest,” the other remarked, carelessly. “I suppose you know an awful lot?” she continued, glancing at Helen’s book-shelves. She had never before seen so many books together.
“I know just enough to realize that I am dreadfully ignorant.” Helen’s face was troubled; the older woman yearned toward her. She, alas! could think of nothing in her own experience that was likely to be of use to the girl.
Wing Chang’s cousin just at this instant appeared, silently, in the doorway.
“Oh, Lee,” Helen cried; “Mrs. Hallard wants to see you.”
“Chang say come,” the boy replied, “I come quick’s could. Me velly good waiter boy,” he added without preamble, turning to Kate Hallard. “Thinkee takee your job.”