In spite of his heavy-heartedness, Baltazar smiled grimly.
“Well, suppose I am going to China. What of it?”
“May I postpone Cambridge degree and Fellowship for several years and accompany you?”
Baltazar’s brow grew black. “Isn’t England good enough for you?”
Quong Ho broke into florid Chinese, the only vehicle for his emotion. England was the land of his dreams. But why should he lie beneath the passion-flower of luxury while his master ate the bread of exile? Surely his degraded unworthiness might be useful to his illustrious Excellency as confidential secretary not unversed, thanks to his honoured master and patron, in the language and scholarship of the Mandarins. Or, if that was deemed too honourable a position, his filial piety ordained that he should offer himself as slave or any debased instrument for which use could be found.
“Oh, for God’s sake talk English!” cried Baltazar, his nerves on edge, foreseeing such endless verbiage in similar perfect phrasing that awaited him in China.
Quong Ho spread out his hands and his face grew impassive. “I have spoken,” he replied simply.
“I don’t want any more careers upset,” said Baltazar, irritably. “You’re fixed. You’ve to get your Fellowship. You’ll stay in England. Besides, I need you here to look after Miss Baring’s interests.”
“I confess,” said Quong Ho, gravely, “to being oblivious of that side of the question.”
Baltazar, lying deep in his arm-chair, pipe in mouth, gazed intently into the oblique steadfast eyes of the son of his quaint adoption. The idea of leaving Marcelle under his protection did not seem in the least comic. He passed an impatient hand over his brow. Was he losing his sense of values?