I made the pies. A woman’s shoe lay on the threadbare carpeting. The jolly part of it was that for the first time in her life so far as London was concerned, she was not going anywhere in particular; for the first time in her life it seemed to her she was taking London in. Mike was drinking a cup of black coffee. She wore a plain black dress, reaching almost to her throat—her small oval face, with the large brown eyes, was colourless, delicately expressive, yet with something mysterious in its Sphinx-like immobility. How could she tell him of the evil that drew her and drew her, as a needle to the magnet?—the fascinating evil that even now, escaped as it was, went on distilling its poison in her mind? "Yes, yes!" said the doctor. "Are you returning to Hong-Kong to-morrow by the day boat?" For a moment Ruth was astonished at the sound of the spinster's voice.
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