In a few minutes the same bell-boy appeared with another of the inevitable jugs of iced water, and a waiter came immediately after and took my orders.  All this being temporarily arranged, I went back to Suzee.  She had changed in that short time from her scarlet dress into one of the palest blue, the most exquisite soft tone of colour conceivable.  It was all embroidered round the edge of the little jacket and the wide falling sleeves in mauve and silver, and she had twisted some mauve flowers and heavy silver ornaments into her shining hair.  Her great dark eyes flashed and sparkled, the pure tint of her skin shewed the most faultless cream against the soft blue silk, her little mouth curved redly in gay smiles as she looked at me for admiration.

I was sad and heart-sick really in my inner self, but the senses count for much in this life and they were pleased and told me I had done well.

“I am quite, quite happy, Treevor,” she said, as I told her she was beautiful, a vision to dazzle one.  “Now see me make tea.  All Chinese make it this way.”

On a little side table she had rigged up a sort of spirit stand, and on this a kettle steamed merrily.  Set out on the table was a queer little silver box of tea and four delicate, transparent cups or basins, for they had no handles, of the most fairy-like egg-shell china, each standing in a shell-like saucer.

“Where is your teapot?” I asked, coming up to the table and putting my hand on the blue silk-clad shoulder.

“Chinese never have teapot.  That’s all an English mistake.  Chinese always make tea in a cup.”

She took as she spoke a pinch of tea between her tiny fingers and dropped it into one of the cups, immediately filling it up with boiling water.  Then she took the saucer from underneath and set it on the top, its rim exactly enclosed the edge of the cup.  Raising the saucer a trifle at one side, she poured the infusion into one of the other little bowls, keeping her finger on the saucer to hold it in place.  The tea leaves, kept back by the saucer, remained in the first cup.  The tea, a clear, pale-amber liquid, filled the second.

“Now it is ready to drink,” she said, lifting the tiny egg-shell bowl and handing it to me.

“Don’t you have any milk or sugar?” I said, taking the hot basin in my hand and holding it by a little rim at the bottom, the only place one could hold it for the heat.

“No, anything else spoil it.  You drink that and I make you another.”

She threw away the first leaves, put a fresh pinch of tea in, filled up the bowl and strained it off into another as before, then picked up the second by the bottom rim, drained it, and repeated the process with marvellous rapidity.  I watched her, sipping my own.

“Do you like it?” she asked.  “It is real gold-tipped Orange Pekoe.  Very good tea, indeed!”

I drank it.  It had a wonderful flavour.  I told her so and took another cup, to her great delight.