She passed her hand before her eyes and nodded.
“We Chinese forgive our fathers much,” said Yeh Ling, and left her to her grief.
From the house he took his guests to the terrace gardens, and then down the broad yellow avenue to the two massive grey pillars that stood guard at the entrance of his domain.
“You had a lot of trouble with these, I am sure,” said Stott, casting a professional eye upward.
“With only one,” said Yeh Ling, and his fan moved to and fro languidly. “With the Pillar of Grateful Memories there was a hitch. Somebody came into the ground one night whilst it was raining and let cement into the mould, cut off the hauling rope and did other trivial damage. My builder thought that the pillar would not set, but it has.”
He looked up at the smooth face of the concrete and his eyes rested some dozen feet above the ground.
“I have dedicated this to all who have helped me, to the old man Shi Soh, to you, Miss Ardfern—to all gods western and eastern, to all who love and are loved.”
When his guests had gone, Yeh Ling, in his blue and gold satin dress of ceremony, came back to the pillar, and there was a little book in his hand. His finger was inserted midway.
The servant who accompained him he dismissed.
“I believe,” said Yeh Ling, “I shall be happier—” He stood facing the pillar, bowed, then opening the book, he began to read in his deep rich voice. He was reading the service for the burial of the dead.