“I'll ask Mr. Po to come in with us. He is a gentleman. And perhaps it would be better.”
“Oh, yes,” said she, “of course.”
“Here's John with hot water. I'll leave you now.”
“You'll—come back?”
“For dinner, yes.”
With this he gently withdrew his arm. As she watched him go her eyes filled Then she closed her door.
Brachey found Mr. Po curled on the ground against a pack-saddle, smoking a Chinese pipe.
He rose at once, all smiles, and bowed half-way to the ground. But he thought it inadvisable to accept the invitation.
“I hate to be fly in ointments,” he said, with his curiously dispassionate quickness and ease of speech, “but it's really no go. Our own men would play game of thick and thin blood brother, but to village gossip monger I must remain muleteer and down and out person of no account. It's a dam' sight safer for each and every one of us.”