"We're forgetting," he said. He admitted that it would bore him to dally here in Canton, with the pleasures of Hong-Kong so close. The road from Surbiton and Epsom ran under the arch, and, like a bright fungoid growth in the ditch, there was now appearing a sort of fourth estate of little redand-white rough-cast villas, with meretricious gables and very brassy windowblinds. Only her face was clear, frail and delicate, almost flower-like, with the sad haunting eyes ever watching his. He began a jerky, broken conversation that lasted until they reached the station, and left her puzzled at its drift and meaning.
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