“Who took care of you after she died?” “My father. She had heard of women journalists, women writers, and so forth; but she was not even admitted to the presence of the editors she demanded to see, and by no means sure that if she had been she could have done any work they might have given her. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. Yet, here she was, in the ancient Chinese city, weaving in and out of the narrow streets some scarcely wide enough for two men to walk abreast, streets that boiled and eddied with yellow human beings, who worshipped strange gods, ate strange foods, and diffused strange suffocating smells. She opened and read it at once. Eric Vorsack still toiled at work. He was keen to get to work, but the inspiration would not come. He has had the whole country searched; but hitherto without success.
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