She went to her own table and sat down. The command was sullenly obeyed, for the fellow did not appear to relish the rating. They had a universe to talk about—two universes. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. You'd be coming up to Hong-Kong, but you'd be cutting out Canton. She had learned this art in skirts, and knew well how not to be disadvantaged. But she did not talk readily, and in order to say something she plunged a little, and felt she plunged.
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