“Quong Ho,” said he, “you’re a gem. A gem of purest ray serene——”
“The words I recognize as those of Poet Gray,” said Quong Ho.
“That is true,” said Baltazar. “But destiny, as far as I have the handling of things, won’t condemn you to a vast unfathomed cave of ocean. What I tried to imply was, that you’re a wonderful fellow—what the Americans in their fruity idiom which I haven’t yet taught you, call a peach.”
“I will make a mental note of it, sir,” said Quong Ho.
Baltazar grinned over his plate and went on with his dinner, the dog Brutus by his side watching the process with well-bred yearning and accepting an occasional mouthful with a gluttony politely concealed. Towards the close of the meal Quong Ho brought in lamps and candles—Baltazar loved vivid illumination—and drew the curtains. In the house Quong Ho wore Chinese slippers and walked like a ghost. He began to clear away as soon as Baltazar rose from the table. The latter filled and lit his pipe and consulted his watch.
“You can come for your lesson in an hour’s time.”
“In an hour precisely,” said Quong Ho.
“Have you prepared the work I set you?”
“With thorough perfection, sir.”
“You’ll be President of the Chinese Republic yet,” said Baltazar.