I was struck by the fact that with the exception of the duck everything had been passed through the mincing machine or chopped. Beef, by the way, is so bad in China that it is rarely eaten. Then followed the pudding, which was altogether a success, entitled “Water lily.” The sweet was also served on plates. Lord Li maintained that the foundation was rice; if so, it had been boiled so long that it was more like tapioca. Round it were stewed pears and peaches, and all over it little things that looked like white broad beans. These had a delicate and delicious flavour, and I guessed a dozen times what they could be, but in each case was wrong; and the Minister explained they were the seeds of the lotus flower. No wonder His Excellency lives on Chinese food at home when it is so good and so well cooked. The native wine or spirit I did not like; it rather reminded me of vodka. Our meal finished we repaired to the drawing-room, where was set out a silver tray of beautiful Chinese workmanship, with a silver teapot and silver cups lined with white china and with ordinary handles. “You ladies must sit on the sofa,” said Lord Li, “for it is the fashion in China for the host himself to dispense the tea.” Accordingly, he lifted the entire table and placed it before us, then poured out what appeared to be the palest green liquid. “Surely that is not tea!” I exclaimed. “Oh yes, it is green tea. Not green tea made for the English market, but real green tea, uncoloured, such as we drink in China without sugar or milk.” And, putting the spoon in the pot, he produced the leaves, very long and broad, each one separate from the other and absolutely devoid of stalks and dust. “This I have sent over for me specially from my own estate,” he said, “and this is the tea of which I drink thirty or forty cups a day.” It was refreshing, and reminded me of the orange leaves used so much in tropical Southern Mexico in the same way. With this ended our quaint Eastern meal. CHAPTER XVIII FROM STAGELAND TO SHAKESPEARE-LAND How youth adores the stage! It ever has in all climes and ages, and probably ever will. This was amusingly borne in on me just after my boy had gone to Cambridge. A particular play with a particularly fascinating actress in the principal part was announced for production there. Of course, all Cambridge went. A day or so later, when a lot of “men” were raving over the beauties of the fascinating actress, buying her photographs, wanting her autograph, and so on, one of them turned round to my son and said: “Isn’t she lovely? I’m just dying to be introduced to her. By Jove, she is a ripping girl. What did you think of her, Tweedie?” “I did not go,” he replied. “Why not?” “Well, you see, I know her pretty well; she went to school with my mother.” A bomb might have fallen. “Went to school with _your_ mother?” “Yes, and she has a girl nearly as old as I am.” Bomb number two.