“Quong Ho,” said Baltazar, standing over him, with hands thrust deep into his trouser-pockets, “you are immense.” He went away, his head full of Quong Ho. “Doctor,” said he, “I thought that if there ever was a Westerner who had got to the soul of the Chinaman, that man was I. Yet the more I see of Quong Ho the less do I know what queer mental workings and strange secrecies those soft, faithful eyes conceal. He kept me in absolute ignorance of the war, he learned Latin in the next room to me, without my having the faintest idea of it, and he has invested his money in War Loan. Of course, the philosophy of it all is perfectly lucid to him. In a way, I can get at the logic of it. But one wants to be wise not after but before the event. What surprise is he going to spring on me next?” “Perhaps you’ve been nurturing an Oriental Caruso in your bosom,” the doctor suggested. “That—no!” laughed Baltazar. “Chinese vocal chords aren’t built that way. But, for all I know, he may have a complete critical knowledge of the strategy of the war. The confounded fellow learning Latin! That’s what I can’t get over. And calmly investing in War Loan!” “You don’t think he may cut everything and slip away to China?” “No,” said Baltazar seriously. “That at least I’m sure of. The tremendous quality of the Chinaman is his loyalty. The scrupulousness of his obedience is a thing beyond your conception. That’s why he allowed no whisper of the war to reach me. Quong Ho would never be guilty of ingratitude. That you, Dr. Rewsby, should pick my pocket is far more possible. In fact, Quong Ho would cheerfully die this moment in order to save my life. That I know. But within those limits of utter devotion, God alone knows the weird workings of his celestial mind.” He pulled out his pipe and filled it. “I thought I knew a lot. Now I’m being knocked flat and beginning to realize that I know nothing at all, and that everything I’ve ever learned isn’t worth a tinker’s curse.” “Perhaps,” said the doctor, after a hesitating glance, “you have put your foot on the first rung of the ladder of wisdom.” Baltazar broke into a great laugh. “I wish,” said he, “I had met more men like you. They would have done me good. You have the most comforting way in the world of telling me that I’m the Great Ass of the Universe.” His head mended, his fears concerning Quong Ho at rest, his decision taken to send Quong Ho to Cambridge, nothing more kept him in the backwater of the little moorland town. He was for London, for the full stream of national thought and energy. What he would do there he did not know. He would learn. He would at least set his heart throbbing in unison with the heart of the Empire. He packed his newly purchased suit-case with his scanty wardrobe, bade farewell to the detested though embarrassingly hospitable Pillivants, and took train to London with the high hopes of a boy.