h a
slight twitching of the nerves, for, as he talked, in short sentences, he
was quietly rolling and cooking his dose of opium. Into a large pipe,
which looked to Angela like a queer, enormous flute with a metal spout
halfway down its length, he pushed a pill he had rolled, ramming it in
with a long pin, and cooking it in the flame of a small spirit lamp. He
did not speak again until he had pulled strenuously at the pipe a few
times. Then he went on talking, his face unchanged, unless it appeared
rather fuller, less seamed with the wrinkles of intense nerve strain.

"You see," he said, "that is all I do. I was in a good deal of pain, but I
am used to it. Now I'm contented for a few minutes. While I have this
happiness, I feel willing to pay the price. But it is a big price. I warn
the young men who come to see me not to begin opium smoking. It is so
easy. You think you will try, to find out what it is like; and then you
will stop. But you do not stop. Four weeks--six weeks--and it is finished
for you. You are on the road where I am. That was the way with me. It is
the way with every one who starts on that road and goes not back before
the turn. Better not start, for the dreams are too good at first."

His resignation to the chains forged by himself seemed to Angela the
saddest part of all. He was beyond help, and knew it, did not even think
of it.

She had a strange burning behind her eyes, as she listened, though she was
not inclined to cry.

"It is awful," she whispered. "Such days--such nights--such years.
But--you do not lie here always?"

"Most of the time," he answered, the little spark of physical contentment
beginning to dim in his eyes already. "I am very weak. I do not walk,
except when I go down the passage to cook a little coffee once a day. Or
sometimes I crawl out in the sun. But soon I come back. I can stand only a
few minutes. I am too light in the head, when I get on my feet. When I was
young I was tall and large. But a man shrinks small after the opium gets
him."

"How you must regret!" Angela sighed.

"I do not know. Why regret when it is too late? I regret that it is hard
to find opium. It is forbidden now, and very dear. I sell the cleanings of
my pipe--the yenshee, we call it--so I keep going."

"How can you bear to sell to others what has ruined your life?" Angela
could not help asking.

"I would do anything now to have opium," he said calmly. "But it is the
old smokers who smoke the y