Thus an attempt has been made to answer the question which Marcelle Baring vainly put to herself that sleepless night on her return from London, when a boy’s artless admiration had opened springs of sentiment which she had thought deliberately sealed forever; the question asked by Godfrey Baltazar; the same question which almost simultaneously John Baltazar put to himself, while leaning over the gate in the glory of the moorland sunset; which, in a wistful, speculative way, he continued to put to himself after Quong Ho, with new lights on Elliptic Functions and the philosophy of Lao-Tze and the Ethics of Love—for the severe lesson in mathematics was always followed by an hour’s improving conversation on general matters—had retired for the night, leaving him to his last pipe and his last spell of work. But the discussion on the Ethics of Love disturbed his more studious thought and brought back the question which a few hours before had idly flitted across his brain.
Quong Ho had said, somewhat diffidently, in his own language: “Master, may this inconsiderable person seek the solution of an intimate problem from one who is a supreme authority on all things concerning human conduct?”
“Fire away,” said Baltazar in English.
“Thank you, sir; I will proceed to fire. When I left China I was a young man of no account, the son of peasants long since defunct, your body-servant, almost your slave, because you purchased my life.”
“We can stow all that,” said Baltazar.
“With your honourable permission, by no means. I was reckoned in Chen-Chow only as a hopper of clods——”
“Eh? Oh yes. Go on,” smiled Baltazar.
“I saw the daughter of Fung Yu, the gardener of the palace——”
“I remember the old villain. He had a daughter?”
“There were negotiations in progress,” Quong Ho went on. “The young woman was eminently desirable. She was virtuous and obedient, and not devoid of physical attractiveness. When I followed you, sir, from China, I left the affair between myself and Fung Yu in a state of suspended animation.”