The sun was setting in spectacular multicolored streams beyond Whitefield Park. Arrived at her side, it was soon evident, from the throng of seamen in Dutch dresses that displayed themselves, that her crew were on the alert, and a rope having been thrown down to the skipper, he speedily hoisted himself on deck. Canton is all China at night. Rain pounded the tin roof, and waterfalls obscured the pavilion into its own private 91 chamber. “This isn’t furtive,” said Ann Veronica. If he adhered to this policy—to keep away from her inconspicuously—she would forget the name by night, and to-morrow even the bearer of it would sink below the level of recollection. She kicked him in the shin, trying to knock him off his feet.
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