“This morning, while not wishing to appear as an eavesdropper... that is to say... the fact is, Miss Doane, I am a journalist, and am at present on my way to China to make an investigation of the political—one might even term it the social—unrest that appears to be cropping out rather extensively in the southern provinces and even, a little here and there, in the North.”
He was dreadful! Stilted, clumsy, slow! He hunted painstakingly for words; and at each long pause Betty's quick young nerves tightened and tightened, mentally groping with him until the hunted word was run to earth.
He was pounding on:
“This morning I overheard you talking with that young Chinaman. It is evident that you speak the language.”
“Oh. yes,” Betty found herself saying, “I do.”
Not a word about the drawing.
“This young man, I gather, is in sympathy with the revolutionary spirit.”
“He—he seems to be,” said Betty.
“Now... Miss Doane... this is of course an imposition...”
“Oh, no,” breathed Betty weakly.