"My horse has had a fall," replied Jack, assuming to perfection—for he was a capital mimic,—the tones of Quilt Arnold. To reach the Sha-mien—and particularly the Hotel Victoria—one crossed a narrow canal, always choked with rocking sampans over and about which swarmed yellow men and women and children in varied shades of faded blue cotton. The girl was in the game now, and that narrowed the circle. So, instead, they talked of dancing and what it might mean in a human life. Kneebone, Mrs. "Past noon," replied Blueskin. In her little sitting-room she turned on the electric light and looked around half fearfully. Half after six. In the discussion there was the oddest mixture of things that were personal and petty with an idealist devotion that was fine beyond dispute. CHAPTER V.
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