Louise stopped crying and looked at him half angrily. “You are very old-fashioned, Jim.”
“There is something here that I want,” he said. “I don’t know what it is, but I shall find it. And I shall find it not with this—” he tapped his brain cap—“I shall find it by my blind roots pushing down and down.”
She was not stupid and she listened to him. “You are a man,” she complained, “and you can do what you like.”
“Now it is you who are old-fashioned,” he said heartily. “A woman can do what she likes too, nowadays, even in China. You must change what you want most. Instead of grieving for Philip, who does not want you, you must keep saying that you do not want him. And after a while it will be true. Then you will be free to find what you really want.”
She did not answer and he could not tell how much she believed. He gazed somewhat wistfully and with great tenderness at her lovely and still childlike face, and it crossed his mind with a sort of wondering shyness, that of all of them, only this child knew what the mystery of the flesh was. And yet she did not really know, for she had not crossed the valley and slowly climbed the hill of life to the forts of happiness. Instead, like a child she had rushed up that hill and had beaten at the gates and clamored until they opened. She did not know anything about love and its true consummation. He felt a great pity for her, because what she had done could never be undone, and whenever the true consummation came, if ever it did, it would be spoiled.
“We really came here to talk about Pa,” Louise said suddenly.
“And now I do not feel that I want to talk about him,” James said.
“I don’t think Violet Sung would have him,” Louise said. “After all, Pa is old. He looks handsome enough, especially in the evening, and of course he has a wonderful speaking voice — so deep and gentle. Women like it. But any woman would soon know he has no passion in him. And Violet isn’t intellectual — not really. I mean—” she broke off.
A great revulsion fell upon James at the ease with which this young creature spoke these words. “I daresay you are right,” he said, getting to his feet.
“Ma is so simple,” Louise said ruthlessly.
“And very good,” James said gently.
9
DR. LIANG RECEIVED HIS SON’S LETTER on a cool night in autumn. He had just come home with Mrs. Liang from a very enjoyable occasion. Mr. and Mrs. Li had announced the formal engagement of their daughter Lili to Charles Ting, the son of Timothy Ting who, it was expected, would be China’s next ambassador to the Court of St. James. It was said that the most important ambassadorship was in Washington but the most pleasant was in London, for English life, next to Chinese, was the most civilized in the world. The wedding was to be soon, for the young couple were to go with Mr. and Mrs. Ting to England.
It had been a distinguished party. The great wealth of the Li family was joined to the high position of the Ting family, and the Waldorf-Astoria had done its best. The ballroom had been decorated with Chinese works of art belonging to both families, and two close friends of the families, both great art dealers, had lent their best pieces. Invitations were at a premium, and special guards had been hired and stationed at the doors to keep out gate crashers. The food was superb, the best of Chinese and American, and champagne and the finest teas were served. Mr. and Mrs. Li and Mr. and Mrs. Ting had stood in a row of four and with them the young couple. All the men wore formal Western garments and the Chinese women were in beautiful and sumptuous Chinese satins. The Western women were striking in décolleté but the Chinese women were equally so in their shortsleeved high-necked robes. Lili was the most beautiful girl in the room. She was ivory pale, and her black hair was cut to her shoulders and curled loosely under. Across her forehead it was cut in a straight bang, and she wore jade earrings and bracelets on her pale cream-colored arms. She was as slender as a willow, and the apricot shade of her robe melted into the warm pallor of her flesh. Her lips were flame red, and her long black eyes were dreaming. Charlie Ting stood only a little taller than she, and he kept looking at her until people began to notice it and tease him.
Dr. Liang had reached the party with carefully timed lateness and immediately he was surrounded by people. Mrs. Liang drifted away with her usual quiet and found herself a comfortable chair and sat down. She disliked evening parties, and this one was hateful to her because Lili had refused to marry James who, as everybody knew, was worth fifty of Charlie Ting who was only a playboy. She sighed and ruminated mournfully on the importance of money. Liang made enough money but they spent it as fast as he made it. She had often suggested that they should move into a smaller apartment, but he always refused, saying that the house must be worthy of its master. She was sure he had not sent any money to the children and tonight — no, perhaps tomorrow morning after he had got up — she would surely ask him.
She gazed at the crowd of people around him and wondered jealously which of the women was the one he imagined when he talked about concubines. He had said no more since that day when she had written to the children and she began to regret the desperate letter. He would be angry if he knew about it. Still—
Her eyes were now caught by the figure of a beautiful Chinese woman who had something foreign about her. Perhaps it was only that she looked too Chinese, more Chinese than a real one could look. She wore a tight perfectly fitting robe of pale violet, and pearls at her throat and in her ears. Her high-heeled slippers and handbag were gold. She sauntered near Dr. Liang and stood somewhat aloof and alone. But he saw her. How well Mrs. Liang knew him! She saw him move almost imperceptibly toward the beautiful lonely figure, and in a moment or two they had clasped hands. It was nothing but an ordinary handclasp, but Mrs. Liang instantly felt that this was the woman who had made him think of concubines. She leaned toward another stout middle-aged Chinese lady who sat silent a few feet away.
“Who is the woman in the velvet robe?” she asked.
The Chinese lady looked toward Dr. Liang. “That is Miss Violet Sung,” she replied.
“I never saw her before,” Mrs. Liang said.
“She is from Paris,” the lady said. “But nobody knows who her family is. She seems to be here without parents.”
“She is probably older than she looks,” Mrs. Liang said.
“She is said to be very clever,” the lady replied. “She writes verse. It is also said that she is the mistress of that English man.”
With her little finger the lady pointed toward a tall grave looking foreigner who was smoking his pipe and smiling at a small earnest-looking American woman whose gown was slipping from her shoulders.
Mrs. Liang looked at them vaguely. “How do these Western women keep their dresses from falling off their breasts?” she inquired.
“I do not know,” the lady replied. “I have often wondered but I do not know one of them well enough to ask such a question.”
“Standing above her like that,” Mrs. Liang went on, “that Englishman must be able to observe her bosom.”
“Doubtless,” the lady agreed.
They fell into silence and Mrs. Liang’s eyes returned to he husband and Miss Violet Sung. She felt better now that she knew Miss Sung was already attached to a man, but still she disliked her. Also she knew her own old man. He would play about a woman with renewed zeal when he knew she was attached to another man, and that she was a man’s mistress lent her added sweetness.