op side all the
way through the block. Come on, Empress of Chinatown. The royal board
awaits."

The Man Far Low was in the throes of large preparation for the Chinese
all-night banquets which would close the festival. The cashier wore
his dress tunic, his cap with the red button. The kitchen door, open
on the second landing, gave forth a cloud of steam which bore odors of
peanut oil, duck, bamboo sprouts and Chinese garlic; through the cloud
they could see cooks working mightily over their brass pots. Every
compartment of the big dining hall upstairs held its prepared table;
waiters in new-starched white coats were setting forth a thousand toy
devices in porcelain. Though the Chinese feasting had not yet
commenced, it was plain, from the attitude of the waiters, that
slummers and tourists were not wanted on that night. But still the
head waiter, when he came slipping over on his felt shoes, led them to
a table in the Eastern dining room, from whose balconies one
overlooked Portsmouth Square. His aspect, however, was anything but
cheerful.

"Say, you Chink, smile!" said Bertram as he seated himself.

By a slight turn of the head, the very slightest in the world, the
Chinese showed that he caught this in all its force. But he went
gravely on, setting out porcelain bowls. Eleanor's hand moved a
little, as though in restraint.

"Cheer up, Charlie, crops is ripe!" resumed Bertram.

"Don't--please," cried Eleanor. The first word came short, sharp and
peremptory; the "please" was appealing.

The color rose under Bertram's brown skin. Kate, an outside party to
this passage, smiled a quiet smile; but she spoke to Mark Heath.

"What _are_ those paintings on that screen--come and tell me about
them!"

Now Bertram and Eleanor stood alone with the table between them.

"I was jollying him!" burst out Bertram. Eleanor glanced at Kate, who
stood profile-on listening to the ready Heath.

"Shall we go out on the balcony?" She stepped through the open French
window.

As they stood in the shadow, the city at their feet, neither spoke for
a moment. Finally,

"It's a call-down, I suppose?" began Bertram, tentatively.

"Not necessarily."

With a slam, he brought his hand down on the balcony rail.

"You don't give--you don't give a damn--that's the trouble with
you--you don't care what I do!"

Eleanor drew a little away from him before she answered:

"I care if anyone is uncivil."

"What is it but a Chink? They expect