Needless to say it was a slow and often wearisome business, with the interest, to my mind, unfairly divided.  On one side, the Thibetan side, there was picturesqueness enough, though not without discomfort too, for many a time the envoys must needs cross mountain-passes so deep in snow that a hundred Thibetans marched ahead treading it down, and not less often they must sleep in the rudest camps and eat the unsavoury cuisine of the country.  But on the other, the Peking side, there was nothing but hard and dreary work, since every word that the Chinese Commissioners said was telegraphed back to the I.G., and then carefully discussed with the Yamen.

No sooner was quiet restored in Thibet than anxiety about war with Japan began to agitate the Chinese capital.  The air was as full of rumours as a woman of whims.  One day, happening to find himself beside Baron Komura, the Japanese Charge d’Affaires in Peking, the I.G. half laughingly remarked, “So you are going to fight China after all?  I suppose you will win.”  “Oh, one never knows,” was the Minister’s diplomatic reply.  Strange to say the general opinion among men less practical and less well-informed than the Inspector-General, was that China would easily win a war against Japan—­if it came to war—­just as later the unanimous opinion in the Far East was that if Russia fought Japan, Russia must conquer.

But subsequent events proved Robert Hart right.  China, after a brief struggle, was severely beaten, and peace came as a relief.  Then immediately the question of loans to pay off the indemnity arose.  Two small war loans of Tls. 10,000,000 each were floated, it is true, during the actual hostilities, but the first big loan of L16,000,000 was not arranged till so late as 1896.

The I.G. had the matter in hand; but unfortunately, just as he was about to complete it, French and Russian banks offered to lend the sum at a cheaper rate of interest, and so it was given to them.  They also agreed to float a second loan for L16,000,000.  But at the last moment, either because of some hitch in the minor arrangements, or because the Chinese suddenly thought it might be unwise to put all their eggs in one basket, they turned again to Robert Hart.

Late one night a Yamen messenger came clattering down the silent streets, the sound of his pony’s hoof-beats echoing from the compound walls and arousing the whole quarter, there was a prodigious thumping on the big outer gate before a sleeping watchman could be made to roll out of his wadded quilts; but finally, after prolonged consultation, the despatch was taken in to the I.G., the messenger calmed with tea and a pourboire, and quiet once more restored.  Next morning, early, the I.G.’s cart was at the door—­a vehicle, by the way, interesting in itself, since it was chosen by Hung Ki, the man who liberated Sir Harry Parkes—­and Robert Hart started for the only shop in Peking, ostensibly to buy toys for his children friends, as it was near Christmas.