But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. Perhaps an hour passed before she laid aside the book. The hurricane had now reached its climax. ‘Don’t concern yourself,’ Gerald said calmly. A few seconds sufficed to clear the passage, through which it had previously cost him more than two hours to force his way. Some trustworthy Chinaman to watch, for a small bribe, while he, James Boyle O'Higgins, enjoyed himself in Hong-Kong, seeing the spring races, the boxing matches, and hobnobbing with Yankee sailors.
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