"Barby," he repeated slowly. "It is a pretty name."
Barby breathed deeply of the sweet aroma of the tea, fragrance of jasmine blossoms.
Sam Wong sipped his tea and looked at her through half-dosed eyes. Had she been a written picture, he could not have been more absorbed in her. A strangely beautiful girl with a face of ivory pallor. No painted lady. No common girl of the streets.
He longed to know her history but he asked no question. He was infinitely patient and he waited.
Not till the soup had been placed before them did Barby speak again. Then after she had tasted it, she said, "Gee, but this is good. I don't know how long it is since I've tasted food. Funny that the body goes on living after the soul is dead."
Sam Wong looked up quickly. She had disturbed his tranquillity. The bitterness in her tone was astounding.
"Not true," he said bluntly. "Your soul is not dead. I see it shining from your eyes, fine and white and beautiful. The past doesn't matter. It is a sim gone down. But of the present, I wish to speak. The hours that have not happened belong to you. Tell me where will you sleep tonight?"
"Does it matter?"
"To me, infinitely."
"Why?"
"I am a lover of jewels and jade. I am swayed by perfect sonnets. Although I was born in San Francisco and have never been in China, the Yellow River flows through my blood. I have fallen under the spell of your eyes, the spell of their dark brooding mystery. There is far too little beauty in this world for any of it to be destroyed. And you are beautiful."
She closed her eyes and struggled to choke back a sob. Last night she had belonged to Bat Matson; the night before an unknown man had beaten her in a Third Avenue hall bedroom.
"I am homeless," she murmured.
"I will take you back with me to my house," he said. "My rooms are near by, on Pell Street. The flat is large and fairly comfortable, large enough so I need not get in your way. There no one wall disturb you, for I discourage visitors. In Chinatown I am a man of mystery. It is right therefore that I should shelter a girl of mystery. Be assured that I am actuated by honorable motives. Sam Wong is but a humble merchant, a merchant who deals in beauty, a merchant of dreams. How then can I stand idly by while beauty is destroyed?"
"All right," she said wearily. "I will trust you, and why not? I have trusted everybody else, and I have nowhere to go."
The meal was finished in silence. Thanks
to the gentle care of Sam Wong
she ate heartily. Her young body yearned
for food. And now she could scarcely
keep her eyes open.
Sam Wong paid the check. He led the way from the restaurant. As they turned into Chinatown, he held her arm lightly. Through the narrow twisting adventurous streets they walked, streets about which more fabulous tales have been written than any other section of New York, perhaps of all the world. Few of them are true. The most interesting and sinister have never been written. Colorful stores displaying a vast variety of gewgaws, nick-nacks, ivories, jades and raw fish. Joss houses. The Chinese theatre. A Catholic priest walking slowly along apparently lost in thought. No one bothering them, no one paying the least attention to their doings, and yet Barby felt as though countless eyes were following them, watching their every move. Strange smells, strange sounds, laughter, weird music. A child
