Emerging
from the fringe of grass growing across the shore end of the coal-jetty,
Heyst beheld a broad, clear space, black and level, with only one or two
clumps of charred twigs, where the flame had swept from the front of his
house to the nearest trees of the forest.
"You took the risk of firing the grass?" Heyst asked.
Wang nodded. Hanging on the arm of the white man before whom he stood
was the girl called Alma; but neither from the Chinaman's eyes nor from
his expression could anyone have guessed that he was in the slightest
degree aware of the fact.
"He has been tidying the place in his labour-saving way," explained
Heyst, without looking at the girl, whose hand rested on his forearm.
"He's the whole establishment, you see. I told you I hadn't even a dog
to keep me company here."
Wang had marched off towards the wharf.
"He's like those waiters in that place," she said. That place was
Schomberg's hotel.
"One Chinaman looks very much like another," Heyst remarked. "We shall
find it useful to have him here. This is the house."
They faced, at some distance, the six shallow steps leading up to the
veranda. The girl had abandoned Heyst's arm.
"This is the house," he repeated.
She did not offer to budge away from his side, but stood staring fixedly
at the steps, as if they had been something unique and impracticable.
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