Nancy looked round to see the lao t'ai-t'ai, black against the light from the next room. She stood up, ashamed to be caught weeping, remorseful at having neglected her mistress.
"Do you care?" asked the old lady.
"No," said Nancy.
"Hm-m, I didn't think you did."
The girl started to get out bedding for her mistress and help her prepare to sleep, but the woman stopped her.
"I am not ready to sleep," she said.
Her eyes burned with an unslumbering vitality Nancy had not seen before; everything they had looked upon in their seventy years seemed to be passing in review; they quickened with the pride of one who has held her own sway over time. Nancy stood spellbound before the dignity of this ancient woman who used to attend the Eastern Empress herself a whole fifty years ago; in satin and gold she was regal, but it was still her eyes which could not be forgotten, making Nancy believe there were no secrets she could not read, no mysteries she could not understand, when she brought to bear upon her own tear-blanched face the sympathy of one who has walked deep and richly through experience. From those far-off glittering days she seemed to look back at Nancy and to know why she had been weeping.
"Those tears were not for Ming-te," she said quietly.
"No, they were not for Ming-te," Nancy confessed.
"Why did your father wish to marry you to him? Were there no others? Or did he become tired?"