“Yes, I know that.”
“He says that shrubs and other bucolic appurtenances do not please everybody—by which he means the sophisticated inhabitants of capital cities, who prefer such delectable harmonies of colour”—he waved a hand to the pile of shirts, socks, ties and pyjamas on the counter—“to the red and purple atrocities which form the delight of the rural population.”
Godfrey, elbow on counter and head on hand, regarded him wonderingly.
“Mr. Ho,” said he, “you’re immense. Do tell me. I don’t mean to be impertinent. But for a Chinaman to quote Virgil—pat—How do you manage to do it?”
“During my convalescence,” replied Quong Ho, with his engaging smile, “I read through the works of the poet with considerable interest. Dr. Rewsby was kind enough to obtain for me the edition in the series of the Oxford Pocket Classics, P. Virgilii Maronis Opera Omnia. Oxonii. MDCCCCXIII, from which date I concluded that I was reading the most authoritative text known to English scholarship.”
“In the meanwhile,” said Marcelle, “Mr. Ho is in need of winter underclothing.”
Not the least noteworthy of the day’s incidents was the meeting between Quong Ho and Lady Edna, who, proceeding on foot to a War Committee in Grosvenor Street, and wearing the blue serge coat and skirt of serious affairs, ran into them as they waited for a taxi on the Bond Street kerb. She stopped, with outstretched hand.
“Why, Godfrey, I didn’t know you were in town to-day.”
Then, suddenly catching Marcelle’s curious glance, she became conscious of his companions and her cheek flushed. He hastened to explain.
“We’re on outfit duty—indenting for clothing for Mr. Ho, who was badly bombed, if you remember, with my father.”