His large, coarse lips drew wider apart. Strange, I shouldn't know him when he called on me. Only he hated the words he uttered, hated the blunt honesty which forced them from his lips. The Pursuit. ‘You said it. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. ” He passed his hand wearily over his forehead. Rows of roasted duck, brilliantly varnished; luscious vegetables, which she had been warned against; baskets of melon seed and water-chestnuts; men working in teak and blackwood; fan makers and jade cutters; eggs preserved in what appeared to her as petrified muck; bird's nests and shark fins. It was like pouring a strong acid over dulled metal. Outside in the hall he paused and thoughtfully stroked his smooth blue chin. Nothing but the publicity of the place and the recollection of that terrible constituency kept him from attempting some perfectly respectful but unmistakable evidence of his sympathy.
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