His very eyelids were still, and this unblinking watchfulness
gave him the dreamy air of a cat posed on a hearth-rug contemplating the
fire. Was he dreaming? There, in plain sight, he had before him a white,
blouse-like jacket, short blue trousers, a pair of bare yellow calves, a
pigtail, long and slender--
"The confounded Chink!" he muttered, astounded.
He was not conscious of having looked away; and yet right there, in the
middle of the picture, without having come round the right-hand corner
or the left-hand corner of the house, without falling from the sky or
surging up from the ground, Wang had become visible, large as life,
and engaged in the young-ladyish occupation of picking flowers. Step
by step, stooping repeatedly over the flower-beds at the foot of the
veranda, the startlingly materialized Chinaman passed off the scene in
a very commonplace manner, by going up the steps and disappearing in the
darkness of the doorway.
Only then the yellow eyes of Martin Ricardo lost their intent fixity. He
understood that it was time for him to be moving. That bunch of
flowers going into the house in the hand of a Chinaman was for the
breakfast-table. What else could it be for?
"I'll give you flowers!" he muttered threateningly. "You wait!"
Another moment, just for a glance towards the Jones bungalow, whence
he expected Heyst to issue on his way to that breakfast so offensively
decorated, and Ricardo began his retreat.
Pages:
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338