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There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves. She was a merry creature, it is true, and quite beautiful. There was a brief pause, a crowded pause, between them. So while he talked to this girl of work and freedom, his slightly protuberant eyes were noting the gracious balance of her limbs and body across the gate, the fine lines of her chin and neck. ‘Of course the fellow has doubtless stayed put to wait for you,’ retorted Hilary. It hung from the centre of a stout pole, each end of which rested upon the calloused shoulder of a coolie; an ordinary Occidental chair with a foot-rest.
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