Nang Ping answered it with a high falsetto crooning, and in a moment more a man cautiously parted the bamboos that grew clumped beyond the wall, vaulted it, and stood within the garden. Nang Ping ran to him with a little gurgling cry, and he caught her in his arms.
No Chinese lover this, in Oriental gala dress, with glancing amber eyes and coarse threads of strong red silk prolonging his long braid of straight hair, but a Saxon, wide gray-eyed, a distinct wave in his fair short hair, trim and British in his well-cut suit of white duck, with the crimson cummerbund wound about his waist.
He looked down with laughing tenderness at the picturesque little creature in his clasp, half-affectionate, half-amused, and she looked up at him with all a woman’s soul—soul aflame—and all a nation’s passion in her eyes, adoring and perfect trustfulness.
“Oh! my celestial little angel,” he murmured at her flushing cheek.
The girl nestled closely and sighed with content, and he held her, and played with the dangling jewel in her fantastic hair.
“You have been so cruel long, Basil,” the girl told him gently, but moving not at all.
Basil Gregory laughed lightly. “So? I could not come before. You’re an impatient puss.”
Nang Ping shook her sheeny head, and the red flower in her wonderfully dressed hair shook and quivered, and all the jade stick-pins and the hanging emeralds and turquoise jangled against the tassel of small pearls that she wore pendant from her comb. “No. I am never impatient. But the sun-dial tells not lies. You came not soon, and I did miss you hard.”
“Well, I’ve brought you news. Guess.”
“Thy honorable mother——”