“And so,” Wu continued pleasantly, “whilst we are waiting for tea I will tell you the story of the sword.” And he moved as if to lift it down.
With half-closed eyes, wearied with terror, Florence Gregory half crouched against the table, prepared to listen. Her rings were cutting into her hands. Her handkerchief lay at her feet, a ball of rag. Suddenly Wu turned from the weapon, left it hanging in its place and swung back to her; standing behind her, his hands on the table, almost touching her, bending over her, he said, “By the way, Mrs. Gregory, you must love your son very much.”
“Oh!” she told him, rising and turning to him with supplication in voice and gesture, “I do.”
“Otherwise you would not be here?” the Chinese asked her calmly.
“Otherwise I should not be here,” she said a little proudly, stung for the moment back to a sort of self-assertiveness.
“Alone,” he added with a horrid emphasis. “But a mother’s love is capable of any sacrifice, is it not?”
“It is capable of much sacrifice,” the woman returned, some dignity lingering in her voice.
“If your son were in any peril, you would——”
“Oh!” the mother said sadly, “I would give—my very life.”
“Your life!” the mandarin exclaimed almost contemptuously. “In China life is cheap. Is there nothing you value even more?”