"And then?"
Yan Hui did not even raise his eyelids.
He reclined lazily against an old bamboo chair in the inn, looking utterly listless, much less inclined to boil water and prepare tea for guests.
In fact, the table was completely bare. Forget a pot of hot tea—there was not even a single cup.
Hu Yulou, who looked every bit the refined gentleman, stood by the door with his gentle smile still on his face, yet he showed no intention of doing anything himself.
He merely watched Yan Hui in silence. After a moment, he finally sighed and turned to instruct an inn waiter to bring in a pot of the finest freshly brewed tea.
The tea was spring tea, the pot an old one. As steam curled upward, it carried a faint scent of hearth and home.
Bao Xiaoqin's eyes shifted as she watched Yan Hui.
With a flick of her slender, fair hand, she lifted the teapot and slowly filled three cups with steaming tea.
Her movements were as gentle as if she were playing the zither. Every subtle gesture was perfectly measured—neither ostentatious nor lacking in grace.
Then she picked up a cup herself and gave Yan Hui a radiant smile.
Her eyes brimmed with spring, the corners of her lips lifted slightly, like peach blossoms trembling in the March breeze.
If an ordinary man saw it, his eyes would likely go blank and three parts of his soul would be lured away.
If someone pretended not to notice, then he was either blind or not a man at all.
Yet Yan Hui, before her now, was just like the blind Wang Xian, utterly oblivious to the charm of the woman before him.
He did not even touch the teacup before him. His gaze rested on the