After they had presented their votive punks to the great high god, Kate announced that she was footweary.
“Can’t we find a place to sit down?” she asked. Mark took her up.
“That’s the signal for tea at the Man Far Low restaurant. Ever been there? Tea store below, fantan next floor, restaurant top side all the way through the block. Come on, Empress of Chinatown. The royal board awaits.”
The Man Far Low was in the throes of large preparation for the Chinese all-night 170 banquets which would close the festival. The cashier wore his dress tunic, his cap with the red button. The kitchen door, open on the second landing, gave forth a cloud of steam which bore odors of peanut oil, duck, bamboo sprouts and Chinese garlic; through the cloud they could see cooks working mightily over their brass pots. Every compartment of the big dining hall upstairs held its prepared table; waiters in new-starched white coats were setting forth a thousand toy devices in porcelain. Though the Chinese feasting had not yet commenced, it was plain, from the attitude of the waiters, that slummers and tourists were not wanted on that night. But still the head waiter, when he came slipping over on his felt shoes, led them to a table in the Eastern dining room, from whose balconies one overlooked Portsmouth Square. His aspect, however, was anything but cheerful.
“Say, you Chink, smile!” said Bertram as he seated himself.
By a slight turn of the head, the very slightest in the world, the Chinese showed that he caught this in all its force. But he went gravely on, setting out porcelain bowls. Eleanor’s 171 hand moved a little, as though in restraint.
“Cheer up, Charlie, crops is ripe!” resumed Bertram.
“Don’t—please,” cried Eleanor. The first word came short, sharp and peremptory; the “please” was appealing.
The color rose under Bertram’s brown skin. Kate, an outside party to this passage, smiled a quiet smile; but she spoke to Mark Heath.
“What are those paintings on that screen—come and tell me about them!”