was, his reason snapped. He crouched among the cushions and whimpered like a child. And as he sobbed she danced. And as she danced she slowly cast aside her garments until she stood before him a slim golden statue of a loveliness to ruin kingdoms.
He sprang toward her. But as he grasped at her his fingers closed on thin air. She existed only in the charming golden mist of the perfume. Again and again he tried to grasp her to draw her lovely form to his that he might kiss those lush red lips.
But ever he failed. He was reaching back through the dust of a thousand years to kiss a once famous dancer, the memory of whom had long vanished from mortal minds.
Above that dream of long ago there came a frightful din. Kwoh Fan had awaked from his slumbers. He had discovered the key was missing. And now he was outside the door pounding upon it and bellowing like a wounded forest animal. But his pounding availed him not. It could not seep through to Coutts Cummings' consciousness.
Finally it occurred to Kwoh Fan to try the door. It yielded to his touch. As he rushed blindly into the room he heeded not the exotic perfume nor did he see the gorgeous picture which hung in the perfumed golden mist.
He was consumed by hatred, hatred of the guest who had dared to enter his sacred blue chamber. He felt as though he were stifling, as though every bit of air had been drawn from the room. He was nauseated, strangling. In a paroxysm of frenzy he drove his arm through the great glass window.
At once there came a draft of clear cold night air. It stirred the golden mist. The lovely dancing girl shuddered, then slowly the whole picture commenced to dissolve, to float toward the open window. It was a perfumed vision only and the perfume was fading at the onslaught of the air.
Coutts Cummings crouched on the cushions. His eyes were wide with wonder. And now he beheld his gorgeous girl, the girl who had made prisoner his consciousness, dissolving into the very air. He emitted a wild cry and rushed to the window, just as the perfumed mist of the little dancer floated silently past. He grasped frantically at her form. As he did so he leaned far out of the window, so far that he lost his balance and fell. Down, down, down his body dropped until it was grasped in the cool soft arms of the river far below.
Kwoh Fan remained by the window. He gazed far off toward the stars. At last his anger had vanished. It had floated away like the mist of perfume. Kwoh Fan was a great philosopher. Throughout China his fame was legendary. He had devoted years of his life to study and profound meditation. He had lived for that one perfect hour when he would be able to view the visions which lay hidden in the jar. And now that hour had come and gone. The pictures had been before him but he had seen them not. He had always loved beauty, endeavored to drench himself in it. Yet in the supreme moment of his existence his hatred quite outweighed his love.
Kwoh Fan sighed softly. He returned to the tearoom.
“Life,” he reflected, “is very strange.” And he poured himself a cup of pearl-orchid scented tea.
26
