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Under this unnerving scrutiny, a slow flush mounted to the woman’s cheeks. There was granite in her face and agate in her eyes. A vein of conviction mingled with his burlesque. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. The end of the world seemed at hand. Restraining with an effort his intense curiosity, he talked of general subjects only, trying his best to entertain her. Everywhere there are limitations. “You seem to forget that my sister is—married. \"Hi Missy, have you met Lucy Albert?\" Lucy contrived a smile. She lay and nibbled at a sprig of dwarf rhododendron. So, here he was, on the last lap of middle age, in China, having missed all the thrills in life except one—the war against Death. Why? If she had put the query to herself, she could not have answered it.
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