He entered the house-piece, the one large living room of the building, and took his place at a small table by a western window, simply but elegantly set with clean cloth and napkin, shining silver and glass, and a little bowl of roses placed on a strip of blue-and-gold Chinese embroidery. It was a room, at the first glance, of characterless muddle; at the second, of studied order. A long, narrow room, built north and south, with two windows on the west side and two on the east. An old-fashioned cooking range stretched beneath the great chimney-piece that took up most of the northern end, for the room was rudely planned as kitchen and dining-room and parlour and boudoir, all combined, and hams in the brief days of its prosperity had hung from its rafters. The spaces on the distempered walls not occupied by unpainted deal bookshelves were filled with long silken rolls of Chinese paintings. Turkey carpets covered the stone floor. Nearly the whole length of the eastern wall ran a long deal table, piled with manuscripts and pamphlets, but with a clear writing space by the north-east window, at which stood a comfortably cushioned writing chair. A settee and an arm-chair by the chimney corner, an old oak chest of drawers that seemed to wonder what it did in that galley, a bamboo occasional table and the little dining table by the south-western window completed the furniture. But the room was spotlessly clean. Everything that could shine shone. Every pile of papers on the long deal table was squared with mathematical precision. The young Chinaman served the dinner which he had prepared—curried eggs, roast chicken, goat’s milk cheese—with the deftness of long training. He paused, expectant, with an unstoppered decanter. “Burgundy, sir?” “No, thank you.” Quong Ho filled a tumbler with water. “How long has that half-bottle of wine been opened?” “If I remember accurately, sir, this is the fifteenth day.” “It’s not fit to drink, Quong Ho. To-morrow you will throw it away and open another half-bottle.” “It shall be done as you wish, sir,” said Quong Ho. “Except, sir, that I do not propose to waste the wine, for though it is too stale for drinking purposes, it is an invaluable adjunctive in cookery for soups and sauces.” Baltazar drank a draught of water and, wiping his lips, looked over his shoulder at the Chinaman. “Adjunctive? That’s a new word. Where did you get hold of it?” “Possibly from you, sir, who have been my master in the English language for the last ten years.” “You didn’t get it from me. It’s a beast of a word.” “Then possibly, sir, I have met it in my independent reading. Perhaps in The Rambler of your celebrated philosopher, Johnson, which I have been perusing lately with great interest.” Baltazar leaned back in his chair. “Quong Ho,” said he, “you’re a gem. A gem of purest ray serene——” “The words I recognize as those of Poet Gray,” said Quong Ho.