My sister was scarcely likely to make a mistake. Only that I was prevented by one of those soldiers that caught me in the big house. Inexplicably there flashed into vision the Chinese wedding procession in the narrow, twisted streets of the city, that first day: the gorgeous palanquin, the tomtoms, the weird music, the ribald, jeering mob that trailed along behind. All they left it was the moon and stars. “That he should be in the same world with me!” said Ann Veronica, reduced to reading the list of good things the British Tea-Table Company had priced for its patrons. In Europe or in America people would have smiled; but in Singapore—the half-way port of the world—where a human kaleidoscope tumbles continuously east and west, no one had remarked her. “Vee,” she said, “come home. If, around noon, a coconut proa landed, the boys made no effort to unload.
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