"Come, Nancy," Kuei-lien urged, "you must talk; you must say something. I haven't heard you say a word to-day. What are you thinking about?"
"I am not thinking," answered Nancy.
"What a perfect nun you would make," laughed the concubine. "I wish I could stop thinking. But it's no use, my dear, practising these nunnery manners for the bridal bed. And even if you don't want to think, you ought to talk. There is nothing better than talk when your heart is in pain. Lots of talk, never mind what it's about, as long as it keeps your mind from thinking. I have had to talk for years, Nancy. I have had to make myself talk. You will too. You are only just beginning to know what life is."
Kuei-lien was treating herself richly to her own medicine. In the last few weeks her manner toward Nancy had been growing increasingly kinder till she found herself bearing Nancy's pain with her own. To-night, in this still room, the secret that lay between herself and the girl she was tending overpowered her veins with a surging pity so that she chattered desperately to hold back the recurring treacherous need to break down and weep.
With an understanding gentleness she removed one by one Nancy's brilliant garments while the girl submitted as obediently as a child. Nancy's splendor slipped from her like autumn leaves blown down by a wind, leaving her white and solitary and helpless.
"You are beautiful, Nancy," said Kuei-lien, unconsciously echoing Elizabeth's tribute of long ago. Yet she could not resist teasing the girl.
"Your husband will have to do this for you to-morrow night. They will make him drunk, I expect, to give him courage. But his hands won't be so gentle as mine. Yes, Nancy, you will miss even me."
Her sympathy, however, would not let her prod the wound she had made. Kuei-lien's heart was sad, for Nancy's sake and her own. She began humming a little song as she worked:—
"Leaves like scarlet rain in the air,
Leaves like scarlet dew on the ground,
Wheeling to the earth with no sound,
Leaving high branches gray and bare."
She took off Nancy's gay slippers with the whimsical thought that her hands were the destroying wind. But her tongue could not cease humming:—