Even Capes had been for her merely an excitant to passionate love—a mere idol at whose feet one could enjoy imaginative wallowings. A modest drinking bout which had its windup in a fan-tan house over in Kowloon, where O'Higgins tussled with varying fortune until five in the morning. “I don’t think I shall. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. ‘In love? I? Don’t be ridiculous. She could not go to him when it was apparent that he needed her beyond all other instances! What had caused this agony did not matter—then. He continued thoughtfully. Why had he kissed her? What had led him into that? Neither love nor passion— utter blankness so far as reducing the act to terms. It’s an instinct. ” “Why?” “If I were bad at it, you would be on your way to the hospital by now. They happen to a man.
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