these, and nights between sleep and waking, when fancy peopled the
echoing chambers with the visionary lives, now ended, of meek, brown
sisters from Goa or Macao, gave to Rudolph intimations, vague, profound,
and gravely happy, as of some former existence almost recaptured. Once
more he felt himself a householder in the Arabian tales.

And yet, when his life was growing all but placid, across it shot some
tremor of disquieting knowledge.

One evening, after a busy day among his piece-goods, he had walked
afield with Heywood, and back by an aimless circuit through the
twilight. His companion had been taciturn, of late; and they halted,
without speaking, where a wide pool gleamed toward a black, fantastic
belt of knotted willows and sharp-curving roofs. Through these broke the
shadow of a small pagoda, jagged as a war-club of shark's teeth. Vesper
cymbals clashed faintly in a temple, and from its open door the first
plummet of lamplight began to fathom the dark margin. A short bridge
curved high, like a camel's hump, over the glimmering half-circle of a
single arch. Close by, under a drooping foreground of branches, a stake
upheld an oblong placard of neat symbols, like a cartouche to explain
a painting.

"It is very beautiful," ventured Rudolph, twisting up his blond
moustache with satisfaction. "Very sightly. I would say--picturesque, no?"

"Very," said Heywood, absently. "Willow Pattern."

"And the placard, so finishing, so artistic--That says?"

"Eh, what? Oh, I wasn't listening." Heywood glanced carelessly at the