y and the stupid. He never turns aside from
pleasure, or resists an invitation to the feast. In fact, by our
standards a complete rogue, yet the most joyous I have known. Were you
to visit him and make his acquaintance, you would thank me for the
introduction to so charming a character. I never knew a man with so
seductive a smile. Many a time it has driven the virtuously indignant
heart out of me. An Oriental smile, you know, is not an affair of a
swift moment. It has a birth and a beginning. It awakens, hesitates,
grows, and at last from the sad chrysalis emerges the butterfly. A
Chinese smile at the full is one of the subtlest expressions of which
the human face is capable.

Mr. Sam Tai Ling keeps a restaurant, and, some years ago, when my ways
were cast about West India Dock Road, I knew him well. He was an old man
then; he is an old man now: the same age, I fancy. Supper with him is
something to remember--I use the phrase carefully. You will find, after
supper, that soda-mints and potass-water are more than grateful and
comforting.

When we entered he came forward at once, and such was his Celestial
courtesy that, although we had recently dined, to refuse supper was
impossible. He supped with us himself in the little upper room, lit by
gas, and decorated with bead curtains and English Christmas-number
supplements. A few oily seamen were manipulating the chop-sticks and
thrusting food to their mouths with a noise that, on a clear night, I
should think, could be heard as far as Shadwell. When honourable guests
were seated, honourable guests were served by Mr. Tai Ling. There were
noodle, shark's fins, chop suey, and very much fish and duck, and
lychee fruits. The first dish consisted of something that resembled a
Cornish pasty--chopped fish and onion and strange meats mixed together
and heavily spiced, encased in a light flour-paste. Then followed a
plate of noodle, some bitter lemon, and finally a pot of China tea
prepared on the table: real China tea, remember, all-same Shan-tung; not
the backwash of the name which is served in Piccadilly tea-shops. The
tea is carefully prepared by one who evidently loves his work, and is
served in little cups, without milk or sugar, but flavoured with
chrysanthemum buds.

As our meal progressed, the cafe began to fill; and the air bubbled with
the rush of labial talk from the Celestial company. We were the only
white things there. All the company was yellow, with one or two
ta