Drummond had made an abominable mistake. Her head felt absurdly like one of those noddling manikins in the Hong-Kong curio-shops. Martin said “Hi” to her in the halls every day now, a sure sign of trouble. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. I was curious about that. "He is," replied a portly personage, arrayed in a gorgeous yellow brocade dressing-gown, lined with cherry-coloured satin, and having a crimson velvet cap, surmounted by a gold tassel, on his head.
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