. . She was never able to trace the changes her attitude had undergone, from the time when she believed herself to be the pampered Queen of Fortune, the crown of a good man’s love (and secretly, but nobly, worshipping some one else), to the time when she realized she was in fact just a mannequin for her lover’s imagination, and that he cared no more for the realities of her being, for the things she felt and desired, for the passions and dreams that might move her, than a child cares for the sawdust in its doll. The beachcomber, the lowest in the human scale; and some day he would enter into this estate. The Cantonese, excepting in the shops where he expects profit, always resents the intrusion of the fan-quei—foreign devil. Yet, here she was, in the ancient Chinese city, weaving in and out of the narrow streets some scarcely wide enough for two men to walk abreast, streets that boiled and eddied with yellow human beings, who worshipped strange gods, ate strange foods, and diffused strange suffocating smells. She walked over to them still carrying the trousers in her hands, and stooped to examine them. Hanging about! And they start thinking and asking questions, and begin to be neither one thing nor the other. He trembled, not from any superstitious dread, but from an undefined sense of approaching danger. She watched her friend rise and go towards her affianced husband, a look of mischief in her face.
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