CHAPTER XIII.
One day Ruth caught the patient's eyes following her about; but there was no question in the gaze, no interest; so she pretended not to notice.
"Where am I ?" asked Spurlock.
"In Canton." "How long have I been in bed ?" "A week." "My coat, please." "It is folded under your pillow." "Did I ask for it ?" "Yes.

But perhaps you don't know; there was nothing in the pockets.
You were probably robbed in Hong-Kong." "Nothing in the pockets." "You see, we didn't know but you might die; and so we had to search your belongings for the address of your people." "I have no people--anybody who would care." She kindled with sympathy.

He was all alone, too.

Nobody who cared.
Ruth was inflammable; she would always be flaring up swiftly, in pity, in tenderness, in anger; she would always be answering impulses, without seeking to weigh or to analyse them.

She was emerging from the primordial as Spurlock was declining toward it.
She was on the rim of civilization, entering, as Spurlock was on the rim, preparing to make his exit.