At the far end of the room, under a gilded canopy of intricate wood-carving, stood upon his pedestal of many-petalled lotus a great statue of Amida Buddha in the yogi attitude of contemplation, and at intervals against the other walls other smaller images stood or sat:  Buddha, in many incarnations; Kwannon, goddess of mercy; Jizo Bosatzu Hotei, pot-bellied, god of contentment; Jingo-Kano, god of war.  In the centre of the place was a Buddhist temple table, and priests’ chairs, lacquered and inlaid, stood about the room.  The floor was covered with Chinese rugs, dull yellow with blue flowers, and over a doorway which led into another room was fixed a huge rama of Chinese pierced carving, gilded, in which there were trees and rocks and little grouped figures of the hundred immortals.

It, was, indeed an extraordinary room.  Ste. Marie looked about its mellow glow with a half-comprehending wonder, and he looked at the man beside him curiously, for here was another side to this many-sided character.  Captain Stewart smiled.

“You like my museum?” he asked.  “Few people care much for it except, of course, those who go in for the Oriental arts.  Most of my friends think it bizarre—­too grotesque and unusual.  I have tried to satisfy them by including those comfortable low divan-couches (they refuse altogether to sit in the priests’ chairs), but still they are unhappy.”

He called his servant, who came to take Ste. Marie’s hat and coat and returned with smoking things.

“It seems entirely wonderful to me,” said the younger man.  “I’m not an expert at all—­I don’t know who the gentlemen in those sixteen panels are, for example—­but it is very beautiful.  I have never seen anything like it at all.”  He gave a little laugh.  “Will it sound very impertinent in me, I wonder, if I express surprise—­not surprise at finding this magnificent room, but at discovering that this sort of thing is a taste and, very evidently, a serious study of yours?  You—­I remember your saying once with some feeling that it was youth and beauty and—­well, freshness that you liked best to be surrounded by.  This,” said Ste. Marie, waving an inclusive hand, “was young so many centuries ago!  It fairly breathes antiquity and death.”

“Yes,” said Captain Stewart, thoughtfully.  “Yes, that is quite true.”

The two had seated themselves upon one of the broad, low benches which had been built into the place to satisfy the Philistine.

“I find it hard to explain,” he said, “because both things are passions of mine.  Youth—­I could not exist without it.  Since I have it no longer in my own body, I wish to see it about me.  It gives me life.  It keeps my heart beating.  I must have it near.  And then this—­antiquity and death, beautiful things made by hands dead centuries ago in an alien country!  I love this, too.  I didn’t speak too strongly; it is a sort of passion with me—­something quite beyond the collector’s mania—­quite