His busy life left him little opportunity for reading.  But he took in much knowledge at first-hand by observation, which was perhaps better; and as he hit against all sorts of minds, he became in time somewhat reflective and philosophical.  Through daily view of the yellow water, and perhaps the glare of the bright sun on it, or the sight of so much nankeen cloth, or the yellow faces about him, perhaps,—­or whatever the cause or causes,—­Swan certainly altered in his personal appearance, as the years went by.  The handsome, erect youth, lithe and active, with keen features and brilliant eyes, ruddy lips and clear oval face, was gradually fading and transforming into something quite different.  The brilliant eyes became sleepy, and, from a habit of narrowing the lids over them, possibly to shut out the bright sun, receded more and more beyond the full and flaccid cheeks, and even contracted a Mongolian curve at the outer corners.

One May morning Swan sat alone in his Chinese-furnished room, luxuriously appointed, as became him, on his silk, shaded ottoman, and dreamily fanned himself.  His dreams were of nothing more than what occupied him waking.  If he glanced upward, he would see the delicate silk curtains at the windows, and the mirrors of polished steel between the carved ivory lattices.  Great porcelain vases, such as are never seen here, were disposed about the room, and jars of flowers of strange hues stood on mats of yellow wool.  Furniture inlaid with ivory, mother-of-pearl, and coral, decked the apartment, and a small, rich table held an exquisite tea-set.  Swan had just been drinking from it, and the room was full of the fragrance.  He toyed with the tea-cup, and half dozed.  Then, rousing himself, he put fresh tea from the canister into the cup, and poured boiling water over it from the mouth of the fantastic dragon.  Covering the cup, he dallied languidly with the delicious beverage, and with the half-thoughts, half-musings, that came with the dreamy indolence of the weather.  Was it, indeed, ten years,—­ten,—­nay, fifteen years, that he had lived this China-life?

The door swung softly open, and a servant brought a note, and stood waiting for him to read it.

Swan glanced disdainfully at the object, which he could never quite consider human,—­at his white and blue petticoats, and his effeminate face, so sleepy and so mindless, as if he expected him to turn into a plate or sugar-bowl, or begin flying in the air across some porcelain river, and alighting on the pinnacle of a pagoda.

“Hong man, he outside,” said the servant.

“Show him in, you stupid fool!” said the master, “and get out of the room with yourself!”

CHAPTER V.

The Hong merchant’s intelligence proved at once to Swan Day the absolute necessity of his return to America to protect the interests of the Company in Boston.  With the promptitude which had thus far been one of the chief elements of his success, he lost not a moment in (so to speak) changing his skin, for the new purpose of his existence.