Still he looked hale and hearty, and the country life he led had imparted a ruddier glow to his cheek. She was glad to join in the stream of hurrying homeward workers that was now welling out of a thousand places of employment, and to imitate their driven, preoccupied haste. He would have to return to Hong-Kong; and his trail would be picked up the moment he set foot on the Praya. She had agonized over it for weeks. “Please come home. pgdp. . ” “I haven’t told any one the amount,” he went on. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it.
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