The mandarin stood in the doorway.
It was dim there, and at first glance he might have been thought an Englishman. A second look showed his Chinese nationality but accentuated by his European clothes—a light summer suit, a little better cut, if that were possible, than Robert Gregory’s, and more quietly worn. No silk handkerchief showed from a pocket, no gay cummerbund swathed his waist, and Wu wore no jewelry, for the short, black fob of watered silk that hung from his vest was plain as plain. He stood a moment in the doorway perfectly at ease, dignified but urbane. As tortured by the tragedy in which he had played high-sacrificial priest as Robert Gregory, who did not even guess at its crux, could possibly be, Wu showed of that torture no trace. In appearance, in demeanor and in breeding the advantage seemed with the Chinese man, not with the English. And why not? For the advantage in all was Wu’s.
The slenderness of the Oxford days and the Alpine climbing was gone; but no man could have looked less “full of oil,” less fat. “Mr. Wu” was tall and powerfully built, pleasant visaged and altogether gentlemanly, and unmistakably, in spite of his “smart” tailoring, an athlete.
The two English women in the other doorway turned to look at him, and he bowed to them quietly, catching the elder’s eyes and for an instant holding them. Something in his quiet, respectful gaze fascinated while it disturbed her. She turned again to go, but on the door-ledge turned and looked at him again, almost as if some power of mesmerism had brushed against her. Wu almost smiled—not quite—and bowed again, lower than before, but not too low. And she went out a little hurriedly, the others with her. But Ah Wong, who naturally went last, looked at the great man deliberately—a strange thing for a Chinese woman of her caste to do. And as he looked, she read his face and saw the tragedy hidden there. But Ah Wong and the Mandarin Wu had met before.
The Chinese clerk had slid off his stool and crept cringing towards Wu—cringing, almost grovelling. Wu snarled at him noiselessly, and the fellow almost crawled from the room; and Murray went after him and closed the door. Holman had already closed the other. The duellists were alone.
They had no seconds.
Neither spoke. The clock tocked on.
Outside a new note, a note of exultation, had come into the incessant coolie chorus; and Wu’s jinrickshaw man—for Wu had not come in state, but very simply—squatted between the shafts and smoked.
Gregory continued to write. Wu watched him with a faint, contemptuous smile, and then he made a slight gesture towards the Englishman. Gregory did not see, but he felt it, and he obeyed it, and fidgeted uncomfortably, and then spoke, saying, still writing and without looking up, “Sit down, Wu.”
A deeper smile flitted across the Chinese face. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Gregory?”