mater. She'd come quick enough anywhere I told her to. We've been the greatest chums always, the mater and I. Hilda pals with the governor, but she's no end keen on China, the motherkin—goes into all sorts of smelly dives and dens after blue plates and shaky ivory balls, and—and all that sort of thing, you know; reads the rummiest books, knows all about spotted dragons and crinkly gods. She bought one yesterday, a rum, fat fellow made out of some sort of crockery stuff; he sits squatted on the floor this minute in her own room, and if you pat him on his noddle the old chap nods it, and goes on nodding it, too, for a blessed hour by the clock"—Nang Ping understood less than half of this truly British ramble, and listened to it with a puzzled smile—"and she is no end keen to come, to see how things are done in real China. I wouldn't wonder if she wrote an article for one of the picture papers at home—'The Chinese at Home,' or some such stuff. I say, you'll be sure to give her tea Chinese fashion. No borrowed European tricks, you know; just pucka Chinaman way!"
Nang Ping understood the drift, if not quite all his words. "It shall be as you wish: Chinese reception, Chinese delicacies, offered Chinese way."
"That will be ripping then."
"How strange it will be to talk with thy honorable mother!" the girl said wistfully. "And thy sister! Is she like me, or more beautiful?" she asked most seriously. And that he might judge his answer the more nicely and adjust his answer to exact truth, she went from him a few paces, opened her fan wide, spread out her arms, and stood very still, a pathetic figure of Chinese girlhood on view, waiting, anxious but meek, an Englishman's verdict. And then, remembering that the light was somewhat dim, she came a little nearer, but not
