‘Could she have been a spy, after all?’ ‘Oh, she’s not a spy,’ Gerald answered, almost absently. I’d only have to do something about it, and that I can’t. “Not only that,” he answered. So, here he was, on the last lap of middle age, in China, having missed all the thrills in life except one—the war against Death. He was in love with her! She tried to grasp all the welter of values in the situation simultaneously, and draw some conclusion from their disorder. Apparently he had projected beyond his table some hypnotic thought, for it had held him all through the dining hour. Gerald began to ease forward, deciding just how he would accost her. Tell him about the island, the coconut dance, the wooden tom-toms; read to him. The knife is at my breast. ‘And certainly I wish that Joan will come with us.
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