This amazing world she had set forth to discover!  Yesterday at this time she had had no thought in her head about Canton.  America, the land of rosy apples and snowstorms, beckoned, and she wanted to fly thitherward.  Yet, here she was, in the ancient Chinese city, weaving in and out of the narrow streets some scarcely wide enough for two men to walk abreast, streets that boiled and eddied with yellow human beings, who worshipped strange gods, ate strange foods, and diffused strange suffocating smells.  These were less like streets than labyrinths, hewn through an eternal twilight.  It was only when they came into a square that daylight had a positive quality.

So many things she saw that her interest stumbled rather than leaped from object to object.  Rows of roasted duck, brilliantly varnished; luscious vegetables, which she had been warned against; baskets of melon seed and water-chestnuts; men working in teak and blackwood; fan makers and jade cutters; eggs preserved in what appeared to her as petrified muck; bird’s nests and shark fins.  She glimpsed Chinese penury when she entered a square given over to the fishmongers.  Carp, tench, and roach were so divided that even the fins, heads and fleshless spines were sold.  There were doorways to peer into, dim cluttered holes with shadowy forms moving about, potters and rug-weavers.

Through one doorway she saw a grave Chinaman standing on a stage-like platform.  He wore a long coat, beautifully flowered, and a hat with a turned up brim.  Balanced on his nose were enormous tortoise-shell spectacles.  A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin.  She was informed by Ah Cum that the Chinaman was one of the literati and that he was expounding the deathless philosophy of Confucius, which, summed up, signified that the end of all philosophy is Nothing.

Through yet another doorway she observed an ancient silk brocade loom.  Ah Cum halted the caravan and indicated that they might step within and watch.  On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha.  He held in his hands many threads.  From time to time the man below would shout, and the boy would let the threads go with the snap of a harpist, only to recover them instantly.  There was a strip of old rose brocade in the making that set an ache in the girl’s heart for the want of it.

The girl wondered what effect the information would have upon Ah Cum if she told him that until a month ago she had never seen a city, she had never seen a telephone, a railway train, an automobile, a lift, a paved street.  She was almost tempted to tell him, if only to see the cracks of surprise and incredulity break the immobility of his yellow countenance.

But no; she must step warily.  Curiosity held her by one hand, urging her to recklessness, and caution held her by the other.  Her safety lay in pretense—­that what she saw was as a tale twice told.