CHAPTER VIII
Some Balm
There was a great deal in the Oxford life that reminded
Wu of China: the beauty and the dignity,
the repose, the dedication (and of some the devotion too)
to the finer things, and not less the riot of the "wines,"
the crash and clash of the "rows," the luxury and the
elaborations. It was reminder that he found, and not
resemblance. Oxford was intensely English. He liked
it none the less for that. Nothing at Portland Place
had annoyed him more than the mongrel mix-up of West
and East, the fatuous attempt to blend the unblendable.
It was neither English goose nor Chinese mongoose, and
he loathed it. Oxford was good, downright English dog,
and well pedigreed; he liked the bark and the bite of it
and the honest look in its eyes.
The crass mistakes so often made by his rich countrymen at such places he avoided, partly by his own good sense and partly by Muir's counsel and the dead mandarin's command. He spent of his great income lavishly, but not too lavishly. He kept good horses, but not too good; and he kept no valet. His entertainment was generous, but nothing much out of the common, and never beyond the convenient return of the richer men. He made much pleasant and useful acquaintance, but no friends. He indulged himself a little in the furnishing of his rooms, but they scarcely smacked of China. His jade lamp had cost a great deal, but a young duke had one that had cost more. He had a little bronze and
