“You ask Mr Blooke he likee Ching sit where pilate see him ’gain?” he said.
“I am sure he would,” I replied.
He looked sad again directly, and just touched the sleeve of my Norfolk jacket with the long nail of his forefinger.
“Ching velly solly,” he said.
“What about?”
“Mr Blooke think Ching fliends with pilates. Velly shocking; Ching hate pilates dleadfully; hollid men.”
“Yes, I am sure you do,” I said.
The Celestial’s face lit up again directly, and he rubbed his hands.
“Ching velly—”
“Yes?” I said, for Mr Brooke called to me from the little cabin contrived for shelter in the after part of the vessel.