“I am sorry,” he apologised, “but I am thinking of my favorite poem,” his eyes twinkled. “You remember the other gentleman who ’rose with a sigh, and he said, ‘Can this be? We are ruined by Chinese cheap labour....’”
“I shall certainly not ‘go the Heathen Chinee,’” said Carver good-humouredly, “not for the moment. What I like about you, Yeh Ling, is your refreshing sanity. I don’t know that I have ever dealt with a man—shall I say fought with a man?—who would have given me greater pleasure to fence.”
The Chinaman performed a deep kow-tow and his mock humility amused Carver long after he had left the shadow of the Golden Roof.
Yeh Ling, who seldom made any personal effort for the comfort of his guests, paid particular attention to the preparations which were being made in No. 6 that night. The Italian waiters, to whom the proprietor was almost unknown, were both nervous and annoyed, for nothing seemed to please Yeh Ling. He had the flowers changed half-a-dozen times. He had new cloths brought and at the last minute insisted upon the table being laid all over again. He brought the rarest of glass to adorn the board, unearthed unsuspected treasures in chinaware, and substituted them for the crockery of the restaurant. This done, he summoned to his room the maitre d’hotel and the wine chef, and chose the dinner with the most exquisite care.
“Yeh Ling has really done himself proud,” said Tab admiring the table.
The girl nodded. She had hoped that Yeh Ling would have chosen another room, but she had no real feeling of repugnance and besides she had been here since Trasmere’s death.
“It is very thrilling to be dining alone with a young man,” she said, handing her wrap to the waiter, “and I can only hope the scandal of it doesn’t get into the newspapers!”
“Shall we see Yeh Ling?” asked Tab, half-way through the dinner.
She shook her head.
“He never appears. He has only been in this room twice to my recollection.