He would get very cross one evening and no one would dare to remind him of it. There was also a curious interview at a big hotel with a middle-aged, white-powdered woman, all covered with jewels and reeking of scent, who wanted a Companion. He read but little, and that chiefly healthy light fiction with chromatic titles, The Red Sword, The Black Helmet, The Purple Robe, also in order “to distract his mind. “What’s odd?” “Oh, everything!” She shivered, and went to the fire and poked it. He carried a small bag. Her fingers closed upon it instinctively. But I will disappoint you. Above the housetops it was different. It hung from the centre of a stout pole, each end of which rested upon the calloused shoulder of a coolie; an ordinary Occidental chair with a foot-rest.
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