“I am about to do so. Patience!” Wu said silkenly. “In China things move slowly. China is the tortoise of the world, not the hare. I was going to tell you”—he spoke with a deliberation that was a torture in itself.
“Yes?” she interrupted his vindictive procrastination feverishly.
“About that sword.” The mandarin pointed to where it hung.
Mrs. Gregory half smothered a moan.
“The sword with rather a gruesome history——”
“Oh! don’t, please, Mr. Wu,” she broke in, “please—I—I couldn’t bear it now.”
“But, my dear Mrs. Gregory,” he persisted blandly, “good news will keep. Time is not pressing. Besides, tea has not yet been brought in.”
“Tea!” she panted distractedly; “oh! Mr. Wu, you must please excuse me.”
“I beg you to excuse me,” the Chinese corrected, a little arrogantly. “For countless generations my ancestors have drunk tea at this hour, and our tradition must be kept up. You have been long enough in China to know, perhaps, that tea-drinking with us as a matter of ceremony is an indispensable custom——”
“Yes, I do know that,” she said quickly, “but—I——”