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right in Yung Shue Wan some distance from the ferry terminal, crossed a small valley, and climbed yet another hill. She followed him, still without uttering a word, onto a path that grew narrower and darker until they stepped through a garden gate and stood before a house that could hardly be seen from the path, as it was hidden behind a wall of trees and bushes.
    She followed him into the house, up to the first floor, took off her wet clothes, had a hot shower as he had advised her to, and, as the water gradually warmed her body and the steam filled the bathroom, she felt desire rise in her in a way she had not experienced for a long time. She knew that she would not get dressed after this, that she would follow him to his bedroom and slide into his bed, that he would not need to practice any great arts of seduction for her to give herself to him. He would only have to say a word, make a gesture, give a hint, however subtle, and it would be enough.
    Instead, she heard him clattering away in the kitchen.
    He had laid out a white bathrobe for her along with a long-sleeved man’s silk undershirt, a sweater, a pair of old sweatpants, and thick woolen socks, all much too big for her but dry and warm. She walked quietly down the stairs to the ground floor, which clearly only consisted of the hall, the stairs to the first floor, and two big rectangular rooms. In one of the rooms was a rectangular Chinese table of reddish-brown rosewood and eight matching chairs; at thefar end of the room were two couches and a low antique table. The floor was tiled with deep-red square tiles and the walls were painted white; Chinese calligraphy scrolls hung between the windows. In each corner was a palm tree in a giant blue and yellow Chinese urn. The house seemed remarkably tidy to her. There was no clutter, no newspapers lying around, no paperwork, no DVDs. The floor seemed to be freshly mopped and the table just dusted. He must have a hardworking Filipino cleaner.
    She entered the room where the clatter of crockery was coming from. Apart from an antique wooden lounger in front of the window to the garden and an old red Southern Chinese wedding chest with a big circular brass fitting, the room was empty. It adjoined the small eat-in kitchen with a wooden counter that was set with two placemats. Steam rose from the teacups; they smelled of lemongrass and ginger. She had never been in a home that presented so many puzzles. This man clearly had money and liked Chinese antiques, but why did he live on Lamma and not in the Mid-Levels or Repulse Bay, like most of the well-off foreigners? Or was the house just a weekend home? His Cantonese was excellent, but she could see no sign of a Chinese wife or girlfriend. Who had he learned it from? Did he live alone? She had noticed a child’s coat and rain boots in the closet and markings and dates on a door frame recording the growth of a child.
    His voice roused her from her thoughts. “I’ve made tea and some hot soup. Would you like some?”
    â€œYes, please. Very much.”
    When he noticed how the sweater, with its sleeves rolled up several times, and sweatpants hung loosely from her, a brief smile passed over his face.
    She felt her heart pound. A gesture, a hint would suffice.
    The soup was delicious. A vegetable and pork belly broth that her grandmother had made for her when she was a child.
    â€œThis tastes wonderful.”
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œDid you make it yourself?”
    â€œYes,” he said. “Yesterday. I just warmed it up.”
    â€œDo you cook often?”
    â€œEvery day.”
    She wondered if any of her women friends still cooked for themselves. Everyone she could think of had a Filipina maid who cooked for them, and on Sundays they all ate in restaurants. Her husband, like all Hong Kong men she knew, really, had never even been able to prepare a decent congee.
    â€œI suspect a Filipina maid cooks for you. And on Sundays, when she’s off,