It was noon when the caravan reached the tower of the water-clock. Winter came at the manor. He was really very proud of her, and extraordinarily angry and resentful at the innocent and audacious selfreliance that seemed to intimate her sense of absolute independence of him, her absolute security without him. The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. Even her memories of he who had frequented her life for the longest period of years were worn and fading. A paralyzing horror was upon her. There were the burnt papers still in the grate. He made Hong-Kong at dusk: wet, hungry, and a bit groggy for the want of sleep; but he was in no wise discouraged.
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