Of course, it was not smoke obscuring the
moon, she decided; it was a lamp, upheld by an ivory figure--a lamp
with a Chinese shade.
A subdued roaring sound became audible; and this was occasioned by the
gas fire, burning behind the Japanese screen on which gaily plumaged
birds sported in the branches of golden palms. Rita raised her hands
to her eyes. Mist obscured her sight. Swiftly, now, reality was
asserting itself and banishing the phantasmagoria conjured up by
chandu.
In her dim, cushioned corner Mollie Gretna lay back against the wall,
her face pale and her weak mouth foolishly agape. Cyrus Kilfane was
indistinguishable from the pile of rugs amid which he sprawled by the
table, and of Sir Lucien Pyne nothing was to be seen but the
outstretched legs and feet which projected grotesquely from a recess.
Seated, oriental fashion, upon an improvised divan near the grand
piano and propped up by a number of garish cushions, Rita beheld Mrs.
Sin. The long bamboo pipe had fallen from her listless fingers. Her
face wore an expression of mystic rapture like that characterizing the
features of some Chinese Buddhas.
Fear, unaccountable but uncontrollable, suddenly seized upon Rita. She
felt weak and dizzy, but she struggled partly upright.
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