I let him take me to the English Embassy, and we went through some sort of a ceremony. There was something fatalistic about the letter H. To reach the Sha-mien—and particularly the Hotel Victoria—one crossed a narrow canal, always choked with rocking sampans over and about which swarmed yellow men and women and children in varied shades of faded blue cotton. When I absorb a fact, my brain weighs the fact carefully and stores it away. You give her a daub here and there where the rust shows. Why am I here—thirty years of loneliness? Because I know women, the good and the bad; and because I could not have the good, I would not take the bad. Some one had once, in his hearing, called him a prig. The rain smelled of the Tyrrhenian Sea, which lay only a few paces beyond the manor's white sea-soaked walls.
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