The woman’s uneasiness was growing rapidly. “I don’t think I ought to have come,” she said, looking about her nervously. “But now,” with an effort to speak ordinarily and to assume an unconcern she no longer felt, “Mr. Wu, what is the news?”
“Oh! pray, Mrs. Gregory,” the Chinese begged, all the blandness in his voice again, “do not let so trifling an incident disturb you in the least.”
A sudden throb of Chinese music came from the garden, and at the first note a change crept into his face. It was such music—but softly thrummed, almost timid—as he and Wu Lu had heard together on their first hours alone in Sze-chuan. Chinese music is strange to European ears; they rarely learn to hear it for what it is. It is not discord. It is not crude. At its best it is the pulse of passion turned into sound. No other music is so passionate, no other music so provocative. And this was Chinese music at its best. Wu laid down his fan softly, and stood listening, his head thrust a little towards the sound. Mrs. Gregory listened too for a moment, startled; then, in a spasm of nervous tension, she covered her ears with her hands.
Wu took a step towards her. “Do you not find the music agreeable?” he asked her in a creamy voice.
“No,” she almost sobbed, “it is horrible! Horrible! I—I can’t bear it—as I feel now.” And she sank down miserably on a stool and leaned a little against the table.
Wu smiled—a cruel, relentless smile. But he moved to the low, wide window, pushed back the opaque slide, and called out abruptly, “Changhoopoh.” The music stopped instantly.
“Oh, thank you!” the woman cried.
“I am sorry it distressed you,” he said in an odd voice; “perhaps these notes——”
“They jarred on me dreadfully,” she sighed.
“It is a pity,” the mandarin told her, “for the music was in your honor.”