” she said. “Here goes for the new life!” “Here goes for the new life,” he echoed and stood up. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrotwise. Perhaps he had had money in the coat, back in Hong-Kong, and had been robbed without knowing it. I suspect he has a bit of vanity. If Miss Charvill should take it into her head to dash off on some foolish errand, go with her by all means.
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