He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience. Inexplicably there flashed into vision the Chinese wedding procession in the narrow, twisted streets of the city, that first day: the gorgeous palanquin, the tomtoms, the weird music, the ribald, jeering mob that trailed along behind. Smith obeyed. He looked at her, hurt. You make yourself charming for help. When he tried the scullery door, and would have moved on, Hilary intervened. It struck his forehead, splitting it, and brought him to his knees. She could not look at him through an interval that seemed to her a vast gulf of time. I haven’t taken much account of it until now. There’s hardly a night she doesn’t sneak out of the house.
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