“Vain boasting, sir,” replied Quong Ho, “is far from my habits, but to me these differences are as obvious as black from white. It is only a matter of informative astonishment that they are not perceptible both to you and”—he took off his hat again—“to the most accomplished madam.” “Look here, old chap,” said Godfrey, “what I want to know is this. How could you, with your exquisite colour sense, go about in that awful red and purple tie?” “To assume the perfection of English pink,” replied Quong Ho, “I would make any sacrifice. At the same time, it gives me infinite satisfaction to discover that the taste of Water End is not that of the metropolis. _Non omnes arbusta juvant humilesque myricae._” “I beg your pardon?” cried Godfrey, with a start, almost, upsetting the high counter chair on which he was sitting. Quong Ho, perched between Godfrey and Marcelle, turned with a smile. “It is the Latin poet Virgilius.” “Yes, I know that.” “He says that shrubs and other bucolic appurtenances do not please everybody—by which he means the sophisticated inhabitants of capital cities, who prefer such delectable harmonies of colour”—he waved a hand to the pile of shirts, socks, ties and pyjamas on the counter—“to the red and purple atrocities which form the delight of the rural population.” Godfrey, elbow on counter and head on hand, regarded him wonderingly. “Mr. Ho,” said he, “you’re immense. Do tell me. I don’t mean to be impertinent. But for a Chinaman to quote Virgil—pat—How do you manage to do it?” “During my convalescence,” replied Quong Ho, with his engaging smile, “I read through the works of the poet with considerable interest. Dr. Rewsby was kind enough to obtain for me the edition in the series of the Oxford Pocket Classics, _P. Virgilii Maronis Opera Omnia. Oxonii. MDCCCCXIII_, from which date I concluded that I was reading the most authoritative text known to English scholarship.” “In the meanwhile,” said Marcelle, “Mr. Ho is in need of winter underclothing.” Not the least noteworthy of the day’s incidents was the meeting between Quong Ho and Lady Edna, who, proceeding on foot to a War Committee in Grosvenor Street, and wearing the blue serge coat and skirt of serious affairs, ran into them as they waited for a taxi on the Bond Street kerb. She stopped, with outstretched hand. “Why, Godfrey, I didn’t know you were in town to-day.” Then, suddenly catching Marcelle’s curious glance, she became conscious of his companions and her cheek flushed. He hastened to explain. “We’re on outfit duty—indenting for clothing for Mr. Ho, who was badly bombed, if you remember, with my father.” He performed the introductions. “I have heard about you, Mr. Ho,” she said graciously. “You’re a great mathematician.” Godfrey wondered at her royal memory. Quong Ho, bare-headed, said: “I but follow painfully in the footsteps of my illustrious master.” She laughed. “You must let Mr. Godfrey bring you round to see me one of these days.”