The word roused ungracious thoughts in Eveleth, and he turned his face to the wall, falling into a half dream. When next he looked toward his host it was at the instigation of low voices. A servant was standing by the hammock,--not the mysterious Japanese girl, but a black boy in a red fez. Aurelian looked toward Eveleth sleepily. "One is without and craves entrance," said he. "What shall I say to him? He has come as my guest; shall I receive him here?" "Is he an 'Elect'?" "No, he is not an 'Elect.'" "A Philistine then." "Neither a Philistine, wholly." "What then?" "A product of Philistinism, an Agitator." Eveleth looked vaguely around over the silent room,--at Wentworth, throned in a stately chair of mahogany and brass that had belonged to the great Napoleon, still crowned with the garland of gold bay leaves he had placed on his head after dinner, half in defiance, half in jest, now sleeping, his chibouk lying between his knees; at the abandoned figures motionless about the bronze brazier; at Aurelian, clothed gloriously in a sleeveless gaberdine of blood-red silk over a white crêpe kimono heavy with embroidery; at his own figure half wrapped in a big mantle of rose-coloured damask. And everywhere the stillness of Oriental sleep. As he looked he said dubiously, "An agitator? Do you think an agitator would do--here? Isn't there rather too much to agitate?" "Yes, and for that reason I will let him come; as it is, this is almost stagnation. He will amuse me, I feel,--I feel, that in a little while, I--might be bored." Eveleth sank back resignedly and not without curiosity. Aurelian nodded, and the servant glided away. * * * * * "Hello, Aurelian!" The words were like a stone dashed in the midst of a pool of brown water, still, under willows. Wentworth, looking like a Napoleonic _revenant_, shivered into wakefulness; Eveleth sat bolt upright with a start; even the opium-smokers, all but Enderby, turned their heavy heads, wakened from mysterious dreams. The new-comer stopped in the door and stared,--stared mightily. He coughed and blinked in the smoky air. It was the clash of East and West, of a fictitious, exotic East, of a commonplace, hard-headed, practical West. "Where are you?" McCann cried loudly, making his way through the twilight toward the sound of Aurelian's voice. "I'm glad to see you at last," he said doubtfully, "but I'm not quite used to this sort of thing, you know; I feel as though I had drank too much." His eyes fell on the confused heap of drowsy humanity around the brazier. "Aurelian," he said sternly, "is this a 'joint' I have happened on?" "It is my house," said Aurelian, in his gentle voice, "wherein I have the honour to count you for the moment a guest." "I beg pardon," grimly; "but as I said, you must remember I am not familiar with this sort of thing. I think I had better wait until you are less busily engaged."