Accordingly the “mission” passed—­in true Chinese style.  The first man by had a dried duck over his shoulder, the next a smoked ham, the third a jar of pickled cabbage, none too savoury, while all the attaches and servants were equally weighted down by pieces of outlandish baggage from which nothing in the world would have induced them to part, since nothing in the world could have replaced them in the markets of the West.

From Marseilles Robert Hart went on to Paris.  Though this was his first sight of the Continent, he was too impatient to be home to linger, and he only remained long enough to hand over his charges to the Foreign Minister, who promised they should be treated with the utmost friendliness.  They were indeed.  Half the courts of Europe entertained them; they dined with Napoleon and Eugenie; had tea with old King William of Prussia at Potsdam, and travelled altogether en prince.

Meanwhile the I.G. declined any share in the lionizing, and slipped off to enjoy a quiet holiday in Ireland.  The only inconvenience he found in being a private individual was when he passed the Customs in London.  What a difference from Marseilles!  About sixty passengers crowded into the examining room together, and a slouchy man with a short pipe came forward, eyed them critically, but instead of taking people in turn, spied out Robert Hart and said roughly, “I’ll take you.  Anything to declare?” pointing to his pile of trunks.

“Nothing but one box of cigars—­Manillas.”

The man scowled just as if he had discovered a gunpowder plot.  Finally he asked Hart where he came from.

“Straight from China, from Peking.”

“Oh,” said the Examiner, softening a little, “that’s such a long way I suppose we can let those cigars pass.”

Then he went over to the waiting people, waved his hand and said, “You can go; that’s all.”

Robert Hart was so much amused at being picked out as the likely smuggler of the party that he could scarcely restrain himself from whipping out of his pocket a card with “Inspector-General Chinese Imperial Maritime Customs” on it and presenting it to the man.

He found his father and mother settled at Ravarnet, as proud as happy to see him back again, and he dropped quite naturally into the simple home life, resumed his affectionate intimacy with a clan of sisters just as if it had never been broken off, and took the same delight in simple pleasures that he had taken as a boy.  Some of his relatives wondered a little at this.

“Let me look at you,” said they, peering and peeking about him for the solution of the mystery.  For mystery there must be when a great man—­yes, that’s what he was already—­should look just the same on the outside as Tom or Dick or Harry—­should even enjoy a simple breakfast of fresh herring and tea.

“I am just like everybody else,” he would answer to their half-quizzical inspection.  “No more noses or eyes than you.”