“He—!” answered September, and how he could stow the smooth and pointed vengefulness of whole Corsica into the monosyllable remained his own secret.
Slim’s glance became uncertain, but he said nothing. He followed September over soft and glossy straw mats, along walls of oiled paper, narrowly framed in bamboo.
Behind one of these walls the weeping of a woman was to be heard—monotonous, hopeless, heartbreaking, like a long spell of rainy days which envelope the summit of Fuji Yama.
“That’s Yuki,” murmured September, with a fierce glance at the paper prison of this pitiful weeping. “She’s been crying since midnight, as if she wanted to be the source of a new salt sea.... This evening she will have a swollen potato on her face instead of a nose.... Who pays for it?—I do!”
“Why is the little snowflake crying?” asked Slim, half thoughtlessly, for the roaring of the human voice, coming from the depths of the house occupied all the ears and attention he possessed.
“Oh, she isn’t the only one,” answered September, with the tolerant mien of one who owns a prosperous harbour tavern in Shanghai. “But she is at least tame. Plum Blossom has been snapping about her like a young Puma, and Miss Rainbow has thrown the Saki bowl at the mirror and is trying to cut her artery with the chips—and all on account of this white silk youngster.”
The agitated expression on Slim’s face deepened. He shook his head.
“How did he manage to get such a hold over them....” he said, and it was not meant to be a question.
September shrugged his shoulders.
“Maohee....” he said in a sing-song tone, as though beginning one of those Greenland fairy tales, which, the quicker they sent one to sleep are the more highly appreciated.