CHAPTER II
At Rice
James Muir was waiting for them in the room
where their meal was served. There were but two
meals in that household—breakfast and dinner—or
rather but two for the mandarin and those who shared
his rice; the servants ate three times a day, such few of
them as ate in the house at all. But there was a fine
mastery of the art of dining, as well as a good deal of
clockwork, in the old Chinese's constitution; and Muir,
at liberty to command food when and where he would,
found it convenient and entertaining to eat with his
pupil and his host.
For three years the young Scot had held, and filled admirably, a chair in the University of Pekin. The post had been well paid, and he had enjoyed it hugely, and the Pekin background of life no less; but old Wu had lured him from it with a salary four times as generous, and with an opportunity to study China and Chinese life from the inside such as probably no Briton had had before, and far more complete and intimate than the no mean opportunity afforded by his professorship in the capital.
Chinese to the core and Chinese to the remotest tip of his longest spiral-twisted and silver-shielded fingernail, Wu Ching Yu, astute and contemplative even beyond his peers, searching the future anxiously saw strange things ahead of this native land of his burning
