XII
THE SONG OF THE SIREN
By the time the _Saluria_ anchored off Shanghai, the fires in
Percival's bosom had assumed the proportions of a conflagration. No
sooner were they seemingly conquered by the cold stream of reason that
was poured upon them than they broke forth again with fresh and alarming
violence.
On the launch coming up the Hwang-pu River he took the precaution of
engaging Bobby Boynton's company not only for the day on shore, but for
the evening as well. With hardened effrontery he bore the young lady
away in exactly the high-handed manner so bitterly condemned in Andy
Black at Yokohama.
The day on shore was one he was destined never to forget. The glamour of
it suffused even material old China with a roseate hue. With gracious
condescension he visited gaily decked temples and many-storied pagodas,
he loitered in silk and porcelain shops, and wound in and out of narrow,
ill-smelling streets, even allowing Bobby to conduct him through that
amazing quarter known as Pig Alley. He not only submitted to all these
diversions; he demanded more. He seemed to have developed an ambition to
leave no place of interest in or about Shanghai unvisited.
Tiffin-time found them at a well-known tea-house in Nanking Road--a
tea-house with golden dragons climbing over its walls and long wooden
signs bearing cabalistic figures swinging in the wind like so many
banners. Percival secured a table on the upper balcony, where they could
look down on the passing throng, and here in the intimate solitude of a
foreign crowd they had their lunch.
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