Occidental formal evening dress. He bowed low as he bade the visitor to enter.
A suggestion of burning pungent incense made fragrant the great halls.
"I believe the Honorable Chang Kien is expecting me," began Cranston.
"My master is in the library," was the reply.
"Will you acquaint him with the fact that Ives Cranston of Chicago awaits the pleasure of an interview?"
"My master has instructed me to lead you into his presence at once." The man although undoubtedly Chinese spoke as easily and as fluently as though he were native-born.
He led the way down a wide spacious hall, a hall carpeted in velvet and dimly lighted by iridescent yellow-orange lamps. At the end of the hall was a doorway hidden by soft rich curtains. The servant, whose name was Shung Kung, held the draperies aside as Ives Cranston entered. The room in which he now found himself was very long and very wide. At one end was a massive open fireplace, a fireplace so huge that it seemed capable of holding a trunk of an entire tree at one time. There was no fire burning although a great log lay upon the irons ready to be consumed by the flames whenever necessity demanded. The room was cozy and comfortable, there were many books spread about on the tables and also many lamps. Near every chair there was a lamp and near every lamp there were a quantity of books. Scattered about the room were vases filled with flowers, wistaria, roses, carnations and sweet jasmine, whose fragrance hung like a caress on the air.
Chank Kien sat in a great armchair before the fireplace. He rose as Ives Cranston entered. Cranston reflected that he had seldom seen a man so handsome despite his evident Mongolian extraction. His face although it had a yellow-olive cast, was almost white. His lips were well-formed, well-formed also was his aquiline nose but it was his splendid eyes that were his chief attraction. They were dark, as dark as night shadows but they were more brilliant than crystals in sunlight. They were extremely expressive, reflecting his every mood except when he did not wish his thoughts to be known. Then the fires died down in them, as though at the command of his will they had been banked, leaving them sombre and brooding. He was faultlessly attired in a Tuxedo suit. His hands were thin and expressive. On one finger he wore an amethyst which glowed like a purple sunset. In his own country he was a powerful mandarin.
After greetings had been exchanged, Chang Kien motioned his guest to be seated.
"I was just drinking a cup of pearl-orchid scented tea," he said, "perhaps you might care to join me. There is no more charming method of binding friendship than for companions to quaff tea together."
As he spoke he poured out a tiny cupful of the amber fluid.
"Small though the cup is," he mused, "the strength it contains is vast."
Ives Cranston lifted the fragile cup to his lips and sipped the tea. It was odd, slightly sweet in taste but not unpleasant. As Cranston slowly consumed the beverage Chang Kien plunged into a discussion of literature which was distinctly charming. His enunciation was perfect and the tone of his voice was like rare music. He talked of the charm of single words, of groups of words and tiny verses and quoted snatches of songs from old Chinese poets.
The wind blows. The inn is filled with the scent of willow flowers.
She sits all night by the cold lamp until the moon melts into the dawn.
The sages and worthies of old times
Have left not a sound,
Only those who drank
Have achieved lasting fame.
So he quoted on and on, bits of verse, broken bits of sentences that aroused pleasurable thoughts within him. At first Ives Cranston was delighted with his drolleries but as the hours passed he commenced to grow uneasy.
Finally, when for a moment his host lapsed into silence, he said abruptly, "I could listen to you endlessly were it not for the fact that I am pressed for time. Literature has always appealed to me, and poetry I have always adored. But I have come ail
