“But, Mr. Wu,” Mrs. Gregory faltered, “it is such an extraordinary request to make—under the circumstances.”
“Not in the least,” Wu said smoothly—and he seemed somewhat amused. “Do you in England usually bring your servants into the drawing-rooms of your friends?”
“No-o. No,” she admitted lamely, “but—that seems different, somehow. I think, under the circumstances—and Madame Sing——”
Sing Kung Yah’s remissness as a hostess received no further comment from her kinsman. But he said emphatically, “I could not possibly offend the spirits of my ancestors by sitting down in the room with your servant.”
“Your ancestors, Mr. Wu! What on earth have they to do with a matter of modern propriety?”
“I said I should offend them,” the mandarin replied with ominous quietude.
“Well then,” the Englishwoman retorted, just a shade contemptuously, “they must be very thin-skinned.”
“Mrs. Gregory!” Wu Li Chang said so sternly that she turned and looked at him alarmed, “this afternoon your husband grievously offended me by certain disrespectful allusions to my ancestors. He knew better—or he should have done. You do not, for you are unacquainted with China. So you must pardon me if I point out to you that in China we pay the memory of our ancestors the deepest respect.”
“Oh!” she said unhappily, “I’m sorry—I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t offend you for the world.”
“Then will you kindly send your servant away?” Wu put his words in the sequence of a question, but there was neither interrogation nor request in his voice: it was cold, imperative and final.