She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. Only the night before, in the dining room of the Hong-Kong Hotel, she had watched him empty glass after glass of whisky, and shudder and shudder. "I cannot part with him," replied the widow, bursting into tears; "indeed, indeed, I cannot. Is this man Hill dead?” She shook her head. She was not a Christian woman.
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