It was the sort of thing, this walking coolly in, where he was not wanted, that he did well. He really cared nothing what they thought. He distrusted profoundly Mrs. Boatwright's judgment, and did not even consider sending in his name or a note. The hour had come for meeting her face to fare and by force of will defeating her. There was no time now for indulgence in personal eccentricities on the part of any of these few white persons set off in a vast, threatening world of yellow folk.
Within the spacious courtyard the sunlight lay in glowing patches on the red tile. Through open windows came the fresh school-room voices of girls. At the steps of a small building at his right stood or lounged a group of Chinese men and old women and children—Brachey had learned that only by occasional chance is a personable young or even middle-aged.
He led the way out through the northern gate aged woman visible to masculine eyes in China—each apparently with some ailment; one man had eczema; one boy a goitre that puffed out upon his breast, others with traces of the diseases that rage over China unchecked except to a tiny degree here and there in the immediate neighborhood of a medical mission.... It was a scene of peace and apparent security. The mission organization was functioning normally. Clearly they hadn't the news.
A thin thoughtful woman came out of a school building, and confronted him.
“I am Mr. Brachey,” said he coldly; “Jonathan Brachey.”
The woman drew herself up stiffly.
“What can I do for you, sir?”
She was stern; hostile.... How little it mattered!
“I must see you all together, at once,” he said in the same coldly direct manner—“Mr. and Mrs. Boatwright, if you please, and any others.”
“Can't you say what you have to say to me now? I am Miss Hemphill, the head teacher.”