“But, my friend,” she exclaimed, as soon as she had caught her breath after a glance about the room where only Oriental objects, dragons, curious lanterns, silk banners, and thick mats were to be found, “this is Chinatown, and you are not Oriental!”
“No, my child. I am not.” The little lady’s eyes sparkled. “But for many years my father was Consul to China. I lived with him and came to know the Chinese people. I learned to love them for their gentleness, their simplicity, their kindness. They loved me too a little, I guess, for after my father died and I came to America, some rich Chinese merchants prepared this little house for me. And here I live.
“Oh, yes,” she sighed contentedly, “I do some translating for them and other little things, but I do not have a worry. They provide for me.
“But this!” She pressed the cameo to her lips. “This comes from another time, the long lost, beautiful past when I was a child with my father in Venice. That is why I prize it so. Can you blame me?”
“No! No!” The little French girl’s tone was deeply earnest. “I cannot. I, too, have lived long in Europe. France, my own beautiful France, was my childhood home.
“But tell me!” Her tone took on an excited note. “If you know so much of these mysterious Chinese, you can help me. Will you help me? Will you explain something?”
“If I can, my child. Gladly!”
“A few days ago,” the little French girl leaned forward eagerly, “I saw the most astonishing curtain. It burned, but was not consumed, like the burning bush.”
“You saw that?” It seemed that the little lady’s eyes would pop from her head. “You saw that? Where?”
“Over yonder.” Jeanne waved a hand. “In that Chinese temple.”