Beneath his engraved name, on the bit of social pasteboard, as correct in Western convention as his coat, Sên King-lo had written, “With gratitude for rice, and always to you, Madame, with my homage.” Ivy Gilbert looked at the card, passed it back—scarcely touching it—looked at the flowers, then looked at Miss Julia, trying to think of some pleasant and satisfactory comment to make—she thought one was expected—failed, and so “Thank you,” lamely, was all she said. Miss Townsend was simple in the best and finest sense of simplicity, but what she knew she knew rather thoroughly, and she was not inexperienced in girls. “Why do you not like Mr. Sên?” she asked. “I’ve not said so.” Ivy flushed a little. “I say so,” Miss Julia retorted with gentle decision. “But,” the girl demurred, “I’m not sure that I don’t.” “You are not sure that you do,” the woman insinuated with a smile. “That is perfectly true,” the girl owned. “I don’t know whether I like or dislike him. I hope I did neither. I’d not care to believe that I either liked or disliked him.” “Why not, girl?” “I’m not sure I can explain. I—yes, that is it; I resented him.” “Resented him?” Miss Julia spoke warmly. “Why?” “His color, I suppose,” Ivy said hesitatingly. “For I can’t think of any other reason. I don’t feel as you do, Miss Townsend, about colored people and all that—we don’t in England. But still—I don’t quite take it lying down, I suppose, when I see one of them, not only evidently thinking himself as good as we are, but assuming that we think so too.” “Sên King-lo is very much better than most of _us_,” Miss Townsend said quietly, “and far too intelligent not to know it.” The girl stared in astonishment. She was wordless. The woman laughed. “Don’t be a goose, Ivy,” she advised good-humoredly. “And don’t talk about ‘colored people’ as if Mr. Sên were one. He is nothing of the sort.” “He is blacker than I am,” Ivy laughed. “Well, how would you like to be called a ‘colored person’?” “But I’m not. And calling me so wouldn’t make me one.” “And he is not one. And calling him so doesn’t make him one.” “He’s Chinese,” Ivy persisted. “Who said he wasn’t?” Miss Julia persisted too. “And—if I get at your meaning, and I think I do—you think it inappropriate that you should associate with a Chinese gentleman on just the same terms as with a French or Spanish gentleman. Isn’t that it?” “There is a difference,” Ivy urged. “Humph!” said Miss Julia. “I don’t think Uncle Lysander liked waiting on him,” the girl ventured. “Indeed?” Miss Townsend spoke crisply. “I give my blacks their orders. I am not concerned with their race-prejudices, or disturbed by their likes or dislikes—so long as they do not display them. And it never has occurred to me to consult Lysander as to what guests I should or should not receive.” “Don’t be angry with me, please,” Ivy pleaded. “I only said what I did because you asked me.”