Peter the Brazen Part 15

"He has money--lots of it. He has a keen, broad mind. But he chose this. When he was first married be brought mother to China. He saw, and realized, China's vast problems. And he stayed. He wanted to help."

Peter gazed into her gray eyes, which seemed to take on a clear violet tinge when she was deeply moved.

"He told me to come to see him because he was growing old. I stopped off in Amoy," said Miss Vost with a ghost of a smile. "A young missionary he wanted me to meet lives there. I met him. But I could not admire that young missionary. He was a--a _poseur_. He was pretending. One reason I like you, Mr. Moore, is because you're so sincere. He was so transparent. And his 'converts' saw through him, too. They were bread-and-b.u.t.ter converts. They listened to him; they devoured his food--then they went to the fortune-tellers! Father could not have known Doctor Sanborn longer than a few minutes--or else he's not the father that he used to be! I inherit his love for sincerity.

I--I'm sure he will like you!"

"But--but----" stammered Peter--"I don't expect to go to Wenchow.

Better say he'd like--Bobbie!"

"Oh, he'd like anybody that I liked," Miss Vost said lightly.

"It--it's really interesting, you know, from Ching-Fu to Wenchow. We take bullock carts--if we can find them. Otherwise we walk. Doesn't it--appeal to you--just a little--to be all alone with me for nearly a hundred miles?"

"Very much indeed," replied Peter earnestly. "But our roads part--at Ching-Fu. I go directly south."

"In search of more adventure and romance? Perhaps--perhaps a girl who is not so silly as I have been? Or--is it India--or Afghanistan?"

"Neither. An old friend!"

"Is that why you are growing a beard--to surprise--_him_?"

"Perhaps," said Peter, absently fingering the bristles. "Don't tell me it's unbecoming or I'll have to shave it off!"

"As if what I thought made a particle of difference!" retorted Miss Vost defiantly.

Peter gave her a thoughtful, a puzzled stare. "I overheard you last night. You broke your promise. You promised to be nice to him."

"I was. Do you mean what I said about Liauchow?"

"You don't realize what you _mean_ to Bobbie. My dear, dear girl----"

"I am not your dear, dear girl!"

Peter groaned.

"Does your heart ache, too, Peter?"

"Of course it does! I--I'd like----"

"Then why don't you?"

"It wouldn't be fair, that's why!"

"To--Bobbie?"

"Bobbie, too."

"Then there _is_ another girl," Miss Vost cried bitterly. She bit her lip. "You should have told me before."

"I thought it wouldn't be necessary."

Miss Vost dropped her eyes to Peter's hand which was resting on the rail. Her own hand moved over and nestled against it.

"Do--do you l-love her as much as th-this?" Her eyes returned to his face.

"I did think I did!"

"But you're not sure--now?"

"Oh, I thought I was sure! I _am_ sure'"

"There's little more to say, then, is there?" Her lids were blinking rapidly as she looked down at the mob of filthy little Arabs on the flat. Her fingers plucked, trembling, at the embroidered hem of a white, wadded handkerchief.

"Bobbie _does_ care for you so," observed Peter with unintentional cruelty.

"Oh--oh--_him_!" sobbed Miss Vost, leaving him to stare after her drooping figure as she retreated down the deck.

She seemed on a sudden to be avoiding the entrance to the forward companionway. He wondered why.

The girl stopped, with her hands clenched into white fists at her sides.

From the doorway, smiling suavely and wiping one hand upon the other in a gesture of solicitous meekness, emerged the tall and commanding figure of the Mongolian--or was he a Tibetan? He was attired now in the finest, the shiniest of Canton silks. His satin pants, of a gorgeous white, a _courting_ white, were strapped about ankles which terminated in curved sandals sparkling with gold and jewels in the mid-day sun. His jacket, long and perfectly fitting, was of a robin's egg blue. His blue-black queue, freshly oiled, gleamed like the coils of an active hill snake.

He was a picture of refined Chinese saturninity.

Miss Vost, beholding him, was properly impressed. She stepped back, not a little appalled, and swept him from queue to sandal with a look that was not the heartiest of receptions. The Mongolian was speaking in oiled, pleasing accents.

Peter strode toward them.

"He insulted me!" panted Miss Vost. "Like many fine, Chinese gentlemen, he thought, perhaps, that I might be--what do they call 'em--a 'nice li'l 'Melican girl!' Impress him with the fact that I am not, Mr. Moore--please do that!"

She hastened around the forward cabin, out of sight.

The Mongolian was regarding Peter with a cool, complacent smile. His expression was smug, uninjured.

"Looka here, c.h.i.n.k-a-link," Peter advised him, "my no savvy you; you no savvy my. My see you allatime. Allatime. You savvy, c.h.i.n.k-a-link?"

"I comprehend you, my friend," replied the Mongolian in polished accents. "In my case, 'pidgin' is not, let me hasten to say, necessary."

"Very good, c.h.i.n.k; the next time you so much as glance in Miss Vost's direction, you're going to walk away with a pair of the dam'dest black eyes in China! Get that--you yellow weasel?"

"Unfortunately," replied the Mongolian, lifting his fine, black eyebrows only a trifle, "your suggestion--your admonitions--are again, most inappropriate. Miss Vost--do I p.r.o.nounce it correctly? Miss Vost and yourself are the victims of a misunderstanding."

"Take off your coat, and prove I'm wrong!" shouted Peter. "I'm a better man than you are! Swallow it or--fight!"

Peter's gray tweed coat flopped in a heap upon the ironwood deck.

The Mongolian retired a few feet, with indications of anxiety.