To this grave young woman, oddly his shipmate, he could hardly, he felt now, have spoken a personal word. Their acquaintance had begun at a high emotional pitch; now it must begin again, normally. So it seemed to him.
“We were looking for my li'l sister,” she explained, and half turned. The eunuch had already disappeared with the child.
“Won't you sit out here—with me?” He spoke hesitantly. “That is, unless you are too tired to visit.”
“I coul'n' sleep,” said she.
Slowly she came out on the gallery.
“There aren't any chairs,” said he. “Perhaps I could find—”
“I don' mind.” She sank to the floor; leaned wearily against the rail. He settled himself in a corner.
“I couldn't sleep either. You see—Miss Hui—Miss Fei”—he broke into a chuckle of embarrassment—“honest I don't know what to call you.”
The unexpected touch of boyish good humor moved her nearly to a smile. Boyish he was, sitting with his feet curled up, stabbing at the deck with his jackknife, coatless, collarless, his thick hair tousled, blushing pleasantly.
“My frien's call me Hui,” she replied simply.