The Master of the Villino had a teapot. Of yellow Cantagalli pottery it was, with quaint adornments like caterpillars all over it; it had a snake handle and a long curving spout. He loved it. He never wanted to have his tea out of any other vessel. One morning a stranger sat in its place. He rang the bell severely. One of the nomad footmen, who appear, and camp, and go away, answered it.
“My teapot.”
‹Yes, it was broken.›
“It came to pieces in your hand, I suppose?” said the master sarcastically.
The injured expression of the misjudged became painted on John’s face:
“No, sir,” he said with much dignity, “it shut itself in the door!”
MORE PEKINESE WAYS
Loki has had a bath, out of due season, because his own artist has come down from London to limn his imperial splendours for his own book. We tried to make him understand that it is only smug nouveaux riches who imagine they can patronize art; that, on the contrary, it is Art which condescends to us. He put on his most Chinese face and became a crocodile on the spot. On such occasions his Grandpa calls him a “Crocowog.” ‹This page is only for the pet dog-lover: superior people, please pass on!› He is very nice to kiss after his bath, a process attended on his side by subterranean growls of protest and an alarming curling of the lip. But—dear little gentle creature as he is at heart—it is not in him to bite even the most persistent tormentor.