"When there was an Emperor," helped out Nasmith, relieving the boy from possible difficulties with his syntax.
"But your father is an Englishman," said Beresford, mindful of the stony British stare.
"No, he is a Chinese official," protested Edward. "He used to be an Englishman."
The men exchanged curious looks.
"And your mother?"
"Our mother was English. She's dead."
"Oh," said the man, fearful lest he had touched a sore spot, but ready to proceed with his questions when he saw by the slight boastfulness in Edward's bearing that the death of his mother was a claim to distinction rather than a recent sorrow. "Then whom do you live with?"
"Oh, we live with father and the amah and Kuei-lien—that's my father's newest wife; she's very pretty. That's all there are here. The rest are in Peking, the t'ai-t'ai and the other wives. Then I have some brothers and sisters in Peking too, but not real sisters like Nancy."
The two strangers heard this domestic record with astonishment, not the smallest cause of which was Edward's matter-of-fact tone in the telling. They had come leisurely through the silver pines to the end of the temple path. Suddenly Nancy, who had taken no part in the conversation but walked on Edward's far side, began speaking to her brother in swift low Chinese. The reaction from her peril, the novelty of walking with two foreign men, neither of them could blind her to the lateness of the hour. Once out from the shadow of the trees, she realized night would fall long before she and Edward could get home. Another spell of panic unnerved her. Edward himself looked round with an expression of blank dismay.
Nasmith perceived the trouble.