April 12th.
THIS afternoon he caught me squarely at the clerk's desk. He extended a cigar and suggested that we stroll into the lounge and have a chin-chin. I observed that his hand was unsteady, as if the palsy had reached and touched him.
On the spot I made up my mind to face him out. I accepted the cigar, and down we sat.
He asked if I had attended any of the theaters in the Chinese city that lies to the south of the Tartar Wall. When I replied in the negative, he suggested that we do a little exploring together of an evening.
“The ancient Chinese character is nowhere better preserved,” said he, “than in these theatrical performances. And the music, of course, is the pure old strain, quite uncorrupted by Modernism or the West. I can boast of some familiarity with the Chinese drama and music, and even a little acquaintance with the language. It would give me pleasure to act as your guide.”
“Thank you,” said I, a bit too shortly. “Later on, perhaps. Just now I am very busy with my records.”
He smiled—all wrinkles. That left eyelid drooped and drooped.
I pulled savagely on my cigar, chewing it so hard that the end crumpled between my teeth and filled my mouth with unpleasant little particles of tobacco leaf.