When he unfolds them the shimmering heaps are like
living opals, burning and moving darkly with the
warm breath of beauty.

And other priceless things the collector has, so that
in many days he could not look upon them all.
Every morning his seven men-servants dress him, and
every evening they undress him. Behind their
almond eyes move green sidelong shadows.
In this silent courtyard the collector lives.
He is not an old man but he is lonely.

Peking


Sunday in the British Empire: Hong Kong

In the aisle of the cathedral it lies, an army rifle of
the latest type.
It is laid on the black and white mosaic, between the
carved oaken pews and the strip of brown carpet
in the aisle.
A crimson light from the stained-glass window yonder
glints on the blue steel of its barrel, and the
khaki of its shoulder-strap blends with the brown
of the carpet.

The stiff backs of its owner and a hundred like him
are very still.
The vested choir chants prettily.