“Very,” she forced herself to lie. She had heard a great deal of Oriental deliberateness, and she was heroically determined to commit no social solecism, give this man no smallest affront. “Oh! very.” If he wished his possessions admired by her, admired by her they should be, and to his vanity’s content, cost her heart the delay what it might. “I had no idea——” she nerved herself to begin, but stopped abruptly, embarrassed and at a loss.
“That a Chinese house could be so civilized a place?” Wu quizzed good-naturedly.
Really, she must do better than this. She would not give offense. “Not only civilized,” she said, contriving a slight laugh—it was an awkward one—“but refined to the last degree.”
There was very fine sarcasm and some contempt in the little bow he gave her—not a Chinese bow—but his voice was sincere and almost pleading. “My dear Mrs. Gregory,” he began, “there is not so very much difference between the East and West, after all. Perhaps we in the East have a finer sense of art; certainly we care more for nature. But we all have the same desires—ambitions—the same passions, hate, revenge—and love!” There was honey in the slow, well-bred voice now—honey and something else. It jarred on the Englishwoman, and she turned with a slightly uncomfortable look. Instantly his tone changed to one entirely courteous still, but ordinary and commonplace. “Will you not be seated?” he said simply. “Or shall I describe some of my ornaments? You look about you as if you were good enough to be interested in my Chinese bric-à-brac.”
“Yes—do—do,” she stammered desperately; “that—that wonderful thing there? That gorgeous-looking duck!”
“Ah!” Wu said, “that is a very precious treasure. Our Chinese potters, as probably you know, are very fond of reproducing members of the animal kingdom.”
“I have never seen a finer piece of that kind of pottery in my life,” Mrs. Gregory said with almost breathless enthusiasm, gazing at the curio with eyes that scarcely saw it and fumbling her rings.
Wu Li Chang smiled. “And it is a very sacred object,” he said.
“Oh?” she asked.
“It is a mandarin duck,” Wu told her significantly. “And the mandarin duck with us, you know, is the emblem of conjugal fidelity!” He ended with a strange, low, sinister laugh. It was slight and very low, but it affected Florence Gregory weirdly. To cover up her own disconcerted inquietude she moved—at random—to one of the magnificent carved cedar columns beside the altar (Wu watching her with a grinning face) and pointed to the weapon hanging there. “And that sword up there?”