They were right—but more wrong than right. For herself Ivy Gilbert had no wish that Sên King-lo should write in her confession book. But she knew how it would excite Lucille and Molly, and how they’d enjoy it and chatter about it. And that chiefly was why she’d trudged upstairs and down to get the vellum-bound volume.
“Shall I write in English or in Chinese?” Sên asked her.
“In both, please—use two places.”
“I shall obey,” he promised. “May I take it away with me? One needs preparation and prayer for a supreme literary effort.”
“Of course,” the girl nodded.
“Is your own in it?” Sên asked her.
“One has to set the ball rolling,” she answered.
“May I look?” He turned to the first page, as she nodded.
“What perfectly soul-scouring queries!” he jibed. “No, I shall not study your revelations of your utmost self until later,” he announced, closing the toy. But the quick Chinese eyes must have caught one question and answer, for he said, “So riding is your favorite pastime, Miss Gilbert. Do you often ride here?”
“Almost never; Sir Charles hasn’t often the time to take me. Lady Snow’s lazy, she hates riding, and I hate riding alone—with only a groom to follow.”