um any old way!" he said. His voice sounded a little breathless.

The doctor, once again absorbed in the contemplation of his umbrella,
went out.

CHAPTER VI

Luncheon, for which Li Ho had provided eggs both boiled and fried, was
eaten alone. His hostess did not honor him with her company, nor did
her father return. Li Ho was attentive but silent And outside the rain
still rained.

Professor Spence lay and counted the drops as they fell from a knot
hole in the veranda roof--one small drop--two medium-sized drops--one
big drop--as if some unseen djinn were measuring them out in ruthless
monotony. He counted the drops until his brain felt soggy and he began
to speculate upon what Aunt Caroline would think of fried eggs for
luncheon. He wondered why there were no special dishes for special
meals in Li Ho's domestic calendar; why all things, to Li Ho, were good
(or bad) at all times? Would he give them porridge and bacon for
dinner? Spence decided that he didn't mind. He was ready to like
anything which was strikingly different from Aunt Caroline....

One small drop--two medium-sized drops--one big drop.... He wondered
when he would know his young nurse well enough to call her by her first
name? (Prefixed by "miss," perhaps.) "Desire"--it was a rather charming
name. How old would she be, he wondered; twenty? There were times when
she looked even younger than twenty. But he had to confess that she
never acted like it. At least she did not act as he had believed girls
of twenty are accustomed to act. Very differently indeed.... One
small drop--two medium-sized--oh, bother the drops! Where was she,
anyway? Did she intend to stay out all afternoon? Was that the way she
treated an invalid? ... He couldn't see why people go out in the
rain, anyway. People are apt to take their deaths of cold. People may
get pneumonia. It would serve people right--almost.... One drop--oh,
confound the drops!

The professor tried to read. The book he opened had been a famous
novel, a best-seller, some five years ago. It had been thought
"advanced." Advanced!--but now how inconceivably flat and stale! How on
earth had anyone ever praised it, called it "epoch-marking," bought it
by the thousand thousand? Why, the thing was dead--a dead book, than
which there is nothing deader. This reflection gave him something to
think of for a while. Instead of counting drops he amused himself by
strolling back through the years, a critical stretcher-b