After all, if one could wait twenty years or more in between bouts of lovemaking, one could certainly wait a few more days. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. "Why shouldn't a Chinaman be honest? Ah, yes; I know. The thought passed through his mind even as he started to cross the terrace at a jogtrot, moving to head her off. He seemed to stay away from her because she was so cold and formal towards him, addressing him as Mister McCloskey as if she were an Irish maid. Never again would he repeat that kiss; but at night when they separated, he would touch her forehead with his lips, and sometimes he would hold her hand in his and pat it.
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