“A silly little priestess who knew nothing of life at all until she came to you. Were I a painter of subject pictures, I would exhaust all my skill in proportion and perspective and atmosphere upon the august seat of empire, I would present it gray and dignified and immense and respectable beyond any mere verbal description, and then, in vivid black and very small, I would put in those valiantly impertinent vans, squatting at the base of its altitudes and pouring out a swift, straggling rush of ominous little black objects, minute figures of determined women at war with the universe. She drew in a deep breath of the sweet mountain air. She forced herself not to think of John. He had been reading Belfort Bax, and declared himself a convert. Canton is all China at night.
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