The mandarin’s countenance beamed with pleasure.
“By my Fifth Button,” he exclaimed, “I believe you could be taught something.”
“I am afraid it is impossible,” she murmured contritely.
“Never! You allow these rustics——” and Ho Ling glared his challenge around the room.
“Yes,” she continued meditatively as she turned her head slightly toward him, “a shrub may appear lofty in the desert and a tea-plant among the tea-plants is not small but,” she looked at him out of the corner of her eye, “I am only a fragile weed in the shadow of the luxuriant pine.”
“Yes, it is true,” he replied, settling back in his chair with supreme satisfaction. “It is true. I am Ho Ling, Mandarin of the Fifth Rank.”
The farmer’s daughter with unconscious coquettishness turned her head slightly toward him so the rose brown of her cheek and her full lustrous eye were visible.
Suddenly, in the midst of the mandarin’s self-contemplation, a chime of laughter pealed through the room. Tossing her head, the child of the Tien Mu Mountains glanced roguishly at the astounded mandarin and darted laughing through the doorway. Again and again came the birdlike notes, until in the distance they ceased in a silvery echo.
“Call her!” shouted the mandarin, rushing to the door.
The old man bowed excitedly.