‘Say it. ’ ‘Very good, ma’am. 48 <6> THE FRIDAY NIGHT SHOW The air was chill and the sky overcast and misting. She spotted her opportunity. While the cloth was laid, the host and Thames descended to the cellar, whence they returned, laden with a number of flasks of the same form, and apparently destined to the same use as those depicted in Hogarth's delectable print—the Modern Midnight Conversation. She foraged about in her mind for some satisfying equivalent which would express in English this gurgling drone the Chinese called a language. She saw her mother, her pale face, a woman in a white robe, calling to her from a sun drenched balcony. “To think that you were going to do it—and never said a word! You are a little thin, but except for that you look—you look better than ever.
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