“And she was grieved to find you not at home. May I solicit your kindness for Madame Sing, Mrs. Gregory?”
“Oh—indeed—anything. But what can I do?”
“Much,” Wu said. “She is ostracized by the ladies of our race. I am a powerful man among my own people, madame, but I cannot influence or soften the prejudices of Chinese femininity in the slightest. Because she is a widow, she should, according to one of the absurdest of the many absurd canons of our race, live in seclusion, sackcloth and discomfort. She is a nice creature, Mrs. Gregory, and she longs for friends. Will you visit Sing Kung Yah?”
“Oh—of course—gladly.”
“It will open many doors to her, for Mr. Gregory’s wife is a social power in Hong Kong. Chinese doors we are both powerless to open—in any real sense. Chinese cordiality I am not rich enough to buy for her or strong enough to seize. But life will be less dull for her if she can sometimes exchange visits with English ladies.”
“I shall be so glad.”
“Soon—perhaps?”
“Indeed, yes. Of course, until this terrible anxiety is removed——”
“It would be cruel of me to ask you to come to Kowloon to drink tea with Sing Kung Yah. And yet I do ask it—but for your own sake too. Yes, if you will be so kind—it will delight Sing—you shall be my guest.”
“We have been already, Mr. Wu,” she said a little sadly. “You remember it was in your house, or rather in your gardens, that I last saw my son. It was there he left us—and disappeared as completely as though the earth had swallowed him up.”