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ful. To-morrow, next week, possibly next year, I should still be grateful. But after twenty years—if you had reminded me of it every day—isn’t it quite likely———”
A door at the rear of the room opened suddenly and Hung Chin-chung came in. Noiselessly, on his padded slippers, he crossed the polished floor to the long table on which Mrs. MacShane had put the coffee. His yellow face might have been hidden behind the curtain of a tule-fog for all the expression one could read there. He gathered up the stray coffee cups and piled them on the tray.
No one moved or spoke. Deliberately Hung lifted the tray to his shoulder, swung on his heel, and strode to the door through which he had entered.
“Hung!” said Barnes sharply.
Hung paused, turned so we could sec his face, and waited.
“This was your birthday, eh, Hung?” said Barnes.
