271 His parents suggested that he go into therapy. One morning, as he took his stand on the Hong-Kong packet dock to ambush the possible tourist, he witnessed the arrival of a tubby schooner, dirty gray and blotched as though she had run through fire. The sky was cloudless, effulgent blue. The other was to go into business—into a photographer’s reception-room, for example, or a costumer’s or hat-shop. “Oh, I am lonely,” she moaned. Wood, in a whisper, as he filled a rummer to the brim, not to forget the health of the Chevalier de Saint George—a proposition to which the lady immediately responded by drinking the toast aloud. The barmaids had too strongly appealed to his sense of novelty. You are—or rather you were——” he corrected himself with an unpleasant little laugh, “Miss Pellissier, eh?” A little sensation followed upon his words. Kevin Chen, Martin’s father, was equally stately, his dark brown eyes bright with the fire of extreme intelligence.
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