So he would lounge and smoke cheap cigarettes， and sit athis window， from which point he had many times observed thelyrical Lucy. He noticed her casually. Another day， he observedher， not casually. Later， he looked long at her； later still， hebegan to watch for her and for that strangely provocativesomething about the toss of the head and the hang of the littleblue skirt as it coyly kissed her knee.
Then that beauty which all Limehouse had missed smoteCheng. Straight to his heart it went， and cried itself intohis very blood. Thereafter the spirit of poetry broke herblossoms all about his odorous chamber. Nothing was thesame. Pennyfields became a happy-lanterned street， and themonotonous fiddle in the house opposite was the music of hisfathers. Bits of old song floated through his mind： little sweetverses of Le Tai-pih， murmuring of plum blossom， rice-fieldand stream. Day by day he would moon at his window， orshuffle about the streets， lighting to a flame when Lucy wouldpass and gravely return his quiet regard； and night after night，too， he would dream of a pale， lily-lovely child.
And now the Fates moved swiftly various pieces on theirsinister board， and all that followed happened with a speed andprecision that showed direction from higher ways.
It was Wednesday night in Limehouse， and for once clearof mist. Out of the colored darkness of the Causeway stole themuffled wail of reed instruments， and， though every windowwas closely shuttered， between the joints shot jets of light andstealthy voices， and you could hear the whisper of slipperedfeet， and the stuttering steps and the sadist. It was to the caféin the middle of the Causeway， lit by the pallid blue light thatis the symbol of China throughout the world， that Cheng Huancame， to take a dish of noodle and some tea. Thence he movedto another house whose stairs ran straight to the street，andabove whose doorway a lamp glowed like an evil eye. At thisestablishment he mostly took his pipe of “chandu” and a briefchat with the keeper of the house， for， although not popular，and very silent， he liked sometimes to be in the presence of hiscompatriots. Like a figure of a shadowgraph he slid throughthe door and up the stairs.
The chamber he entered was a bit of the Orient squattingat the portals of the West. It was a well-kept place where onemight play a game of fan-tan or take a shot or so of li-un，or purchase other varieties of Oriental delight. It was sunkin a purple dusk， though here and there a lantern strung theglooms. Low couches lay around the walls， and strange mendecorated them： Chinese， Japs， Malays， Lascars， with one ortwo white girls； and sleek， noiseless attendants swam fromcouch to couch. Away in the far corner sprawled a lank figurein brown shirting， its nerveless fingers curled about the stemof a spent pipe. On one of the lounges a scorbutic nigger satwith a Jewess from Shadwell. Squatting on a table in thecenter， beneath one of the lanterns， was a musician with areed， blinking upon the company like a sly cat， and making hismelody of six repeated notes.
The atmosphere churned. The dirt of years， tobacco of manygrowings， opium， betel nut， and moist flesh allied themselvesin one grand assault against the nostrils.
As Cheng brooded on his insect-ridden cushion， of a suddenthe lantern above the musician was caught by the ribbon ofhis reed. It danced and flung a hazy radiance on a divan in theshadow. He saw—started—half rose. His heart galloped， andthe blood pounded in his quiet veins. Then he dropped again，crouched， and stared.
O lily-flowers and plum blossoms！ O silver streams anddim-starred skies！ O wine and roses， song and laughter！ Forthere， kneeling on a mass of rugs， mazed and big-eyed， butunderstanding， was Lucy... his Lucy... his little maid. Throughthe dusk she must have felt his intent gaze upon her； for hecrouched there， fascinated， staring into the now obscuredcorner where she knelt.
But the sickness which momentarily gripped him on findingin this place his snowy-breasted pearl passed and gave place togreat joy. She was here； he would talk with her. Little Englishhe had， but simple words， those with few gutturals， he hadmanaged to pick up； so he rose， the masterful lover， and， withfeline movements， crossed the nightmare chamber to claim hisown
If you wonder how Lucy came to be in this bagnio， theexplanation is simple. Battling was in training. He hadflogged her that day before starting work； he had then had afew brandies—not many， some eighteen or nineteen—andhad locked the door of his room and taken the key Lucy was，therefore， homeless， and a girl somewhat older than Lucy，so old and so wise， as girls are in that region， saw in her apossible source of revenue. So there they were， and to themappeared Cheng.
From what horrors he saved her that night cannot be told， forher ways were too audaciously childish to hold her long fromharm in such a place. What he brought to her was love anddeath.
For he sat by her. He looked at her—reverently yet passionately.
He touched her—wistfully yet eagerly. He locked a finger in herwondrous hair. She did not start away； she did tremble. Sheknew well what she had to be afraid of in that place； but shewas not afraid of Cheng. She pierced the mephitic gloom andscanned his face. No， she was not afraid. His yellow hands， hisyellow face， his smooth black hair... well， he was the first thingthat had ever spoken soft words to her； the first thing that hadever laid a hand upon her that was not brutal； the first thingthat had deferred in manner towards her as though she， too，had a right to live. She knew his words were sweet， thoughshe did not understand them. Nor can they be set down. Halfthat he spoke was in village Chinese； the rest in a mangling ofEnglish which no distorted spelling could possibly reproduce.
