It made her laugh, which in turn made him laugh. By that time it seemed to them they had lived together twenty years. Her little bedsitting-room was like a lair, and she went out from it into this vast, dun world, with its smoke-gray houses, its glaring streets of shops, its dark streets of homes, its orange-lit windows, under skies of dull copper or muddy gray or black, much as an animal goes out to seek food. “Gods,” she said, at last, “I’ve done it this time!” “Well!” She took up the neat morocco purse, opened it, and examined the contents. Not even, it seemed, this interfering monsieur le major. Had he been sick in the mind when he had done this damnable thing? It did not seem possible, for he could recall clearly all he had said and done; there were no blank spaces to give him one straw of excuse. In fiction you make the Chinese secretive, criminal, and terrible—or comic. ’ ‘Fancy my old pa thinking you was a French spy.
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