The mutual attitude of the solitary pair was one of curious delicacy. As master and man they were league-sundered by the gulf of convention. As teacher and pupil they were drawn together into close intellectual intimacy. It was the Chinaman’s exquisite tact that simplified the situation for the direct and masterful Englishman. As a servant he scrupulously observed the decorum of the attendant—there never existed head butler in ducal mansion who could surpass his perfection of manner; but as disciple he subtly raised himself to the plane of social equality, and gauged to a hair’s breadth the shade of familiar address warranted by the position.
“Quong Ho,” said Baltazar one day at dinner, when the Chinaman had gone through the usual solemn farce of offering him Burgundy, “your discretion is beyond the value of rubies. Never once have you remarked on the apparent vanity of this daily proceeding. Yet in your own mind you must have wondered at it.”
“It is not for me to speculate on the reason for your honourable customs,” said Quong Ho.
“Yet why do you think I cause myself to be offered wine every day only to refuse it?”
“I suppose you desire to maintain, in the wilderness, the ceremonial etiquette of the English dinner-table. The wine in the bottle is but an adornment, like the flowers in the bowl.”
“It pleases me that you should have come to such a conclusion,” said Baltazar.
For the ceremony of the wine was linked with the causes that determined his sudden flight into solitude. He had promised Quong Ho to inform him of these causes; but the fulfilment of the promise was hard to make. Sitting dishevelled on the bed in the little room at the top of the Savoy Hotel, he had thought disclosure to his servant to be a fitting part of the punishment he had meted out to himself. Later he repented; especially when he perceived Quong Ho’s blank indifference. Still, a promise was a promise, and Baltazar not the man to shirk his obligations. On this particular occasion he thought it best to get the matter over.
“The conclusion is an honourable one on your part, Quong Ho,” he continued, “but it is incorrect.”
“I own, sir,” replied Quong Ho, “that it is drawn from conjectural premises.”