She divided another grape; there were no seeds; the skin melted in her mouth.
"Men," she said absently, "are good." When he laughed, she came to herself and looked at him with shy, humourous eyes. "They are good, Jim. Even the Chinese knew it thousands of years ago. Have you never heard me recite the three-word-classic of San Tzu Ching? Then listen, white man!
"Jen chih ch'u
Hsing pen shan
Hsing hsiang chin
Hsi hsiang yuan
Kou pu chiao
Hsing nai ch'ien
Chiao chih tao
Kuei i chuan——"
She sat swaying slightly to the rhythm, like a smiling child who recites a rhyme of the nursery, accenting the termination of every line by softly striking her palms together; and the silken Chinese sleeves slipped back, revealing her white arms to the shoulder.
Softly she smote her smooth little palms together, gracefully she swayed; her silks rustled like the sound of slender reeds in a summer wind, and her cadenced voice was softer. Never had he seen her so exquisite.
She stopped capriciously.
"All that is Chinese to me," he said. "You make me feel solitary and ignorant."
And she laughed and tossed the lustrous hair from her cheeks.
"This is all it means, dear: