The large red building covered all over with Chinese characters--a white sign on each cardboard square of red--overlooks the canal. It seems too gaudy and unsubstantial a building for sober work, and yet all day long multitudes of dark-blue coolies, like Florentine noblemen run to seed, go in and out. Fantastic key patterns in white are traced upon the skirts of their blue tunics, while on each back is a large red circle covered with the hieroglyph of the building. They may earn some 6_d._ a day for twelve long working hours. From among the pale straw-coloured bales emerge two workmen. There are patches in their dark-blue hose, and the brown toes stick out through the blue of their divided socks. Even the blue designs on the white towels around their heads have faded away with much washing. Catching sight of one another they bow low. A step nearer, and the jaunty ends of white towel tied in a knot on the forehead of one man, touch his knee. The other, whose towel is tied like a night-cap round his head and under his chin, bends lower still. Another step, and the indrawn whistles of politeness grow loud and shrill. Another, and the white towels disappear entirely between the blue legs. Then the night-capped one straightens himself and speaks: “_Shitsurei de gozaimas ga, chotto hi o kashte kudasai_” (“Although this is great rudeness on my part,” he says, “would you condescend to lend me a match.”) WEST Between two rows of slovenly houses a long grey street stretches away, wet and grimy. There is just one break in the grey monotony where the gin palace stands in all its gilt and plate-glass splendour. Coming up the street are two workmen. The billycock hats on their heads have lost their brim, and show more dirty stain than original black. As they catch sight of one another across the street they pause. Suddenly one removes the clay pipe from his lips and spits profusely. The other eyes him, his hands in his pockets; then he too takes the short pipe from between his lips, and jerking his head in the direction of the public house, slowly puts out his tongue. The first billycock replaces his pipe with care, crosses the road, and with a sanguinary word they both disappear within the doors of the gin palace. III YONÉ’S BABY It lay on the matted floor, a little brown thing that cried, and Yoné sat on her heels and looked at it. Huddled over the brazier in the corner, her skinny hands stretched out to clutch the warmth from the sticks of glowing charcoal, the old grandmother dozed and grumbled.