an what I said about Liauchow?"

"You don't realize what you _mean_ to Bobbie. My dear, dear girl----"

"I am not your dear, dear girl!"

Peter groaned.

"Does your heart ache, too, Peter?"

"Of course it does! I--I'd like----"

"Then why don't you?"

"It wouldn't be fair, that's why!"

"To--Bobbie?"

"Bobbie, too."

"Then there _is_ another girl," Miss Vost cried bitterly. She bit her
lip. "You should have told me before."

"I thought it wouldn't be necessary."

Miss Vost dropped her eyes to Peter's hand which was resting on the
rail. Her own hand moved over and nestled against it.

"Do--do you l-love her as much as th-this?" Her eyes returned to his
face.

"I did think I did!"

"But you're not sure--now?"

"Oh, I thought I was sure! I _am_ sure'"

"There's little more to say, then, is there?" Her lids were blinking
rapidly as she looked down at the mob of filthy little Arabs on the
flat. Her fingers plucked, trembling, at the embroidered hem of a
white, wadded handkerchief.

"Bobbie _does_ care for you so," observed Peter with unintentional
cruelty.

"Oh--oh--_him_!" sobbed Miss Vost, leaving him to stare after her
drooping figure as she retreated down the deck.

She seemed on a sudden to be avoiding the entrance to the forward
companionway. He wondered why.

The girl stopped, with her hands clenched into white fists at her sides.

From the doorway, smiling suavely and wiping one hand upon the other in
a gesture of solicitous meekness, emerged the tall and commanding
figure of the Mongolian--or was he a Tibetan? He was attired now in
the finest, the shiniest of Canton silks. His satin pants, of a
gorgeous white, a _courting_ white, were strapped about ankles which
terminated in curved sandals sparkling with gold and jewels in the
mid-day sun. His jacket, long and perfectly fitting, was of a robin's
egg blue. His blue-black queue, freshly oiled, gleamed like the coils
of an active hill snake.

He was a picture of refined Chinese saturninity.

Miss Vost, beholding him, was properly impressed. She stepped back,
not a little appalled, and swept him from queue to sandal with a look
that was not the heartiest of receptions. The Mongolian was speaking
in oiled, pleasing accents.

Peter strode toward them.

"He insulted me!" panted Miss Vost. "Like many fine, Chinese
gentlemen, he thought, perhaps, that I might be--what do they call
'em--a 'nice li'l 'Melican girl!' Impre