Pale Pink Porcelain
praise. But the porcelains he praised, were always the ones Tsang Kee Foo had not wrought, while those in which he detected defects were always the works of his friend.
This goaded Tsang Kee Foo to great fury, but there was nothing in his bland expression that reflected his inward turbulence. He knew that he was a far better artist than Lu Chau, except in one thing—the frailties of women.
"Women," reflected Lu Chau, "are much like porcelain; a single flaw and they are worthless."
He was perfectly complacent. He was handsome and he knew it. China girls loved to gaze upon his moonlike face. His kisses were valued. In love, he was supreme. The ceramic art was only secondary. Every other art was subordinate to love. Some day he would marry Mei-Mei. The future was pleasant to contemplate. Not for a moment did he question his ultimate success. Lu Chau did not fail in love.
It enervated his spirits to talk to Tsang Kee Foo. He was a rival to be derided, not to be feared. What woman could fail to chose Lu Chau, given the choice between them?
He handled the cups, the bowls and the vases carefully. Tsang Kee Foo was an artist, a ceramic-artist, not a love-artist. He was eloquent, his words were honeyed but his face was like a bleached dried lime.
Meanwhile Tsang Kee Foo sat and gazed up toward the lantern above his head. He made no rejoinder to
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