British Legation--that is, such of the British Legation as gather
together each day at the "ice-shed"--which happens to be the club's
peculiar Chinese name. The military attache is somewhat irate, because
the spectacle of the Weihaiwei regiment, six hundred yellow men under
twelve white Englishmen, chasing malcontents in Shantung, is
derogatory to Teutonic aspirations. Germany has earmarked Shantung,
and it is just like English bluntness to remind the would-be dominant
Power that there is a British sphere and a British colony in the
Chinese province, as well as a German sphere and a German colony. But
the German Minister, a _beau garcon_ with blue eyes and a handsome
moustache, says nothing, and is quite calm.

Meanwhile the cloud no bigger than your hand is quite unremarked by
the rank and file of Legation Street--that I will swear. Chinese
malcontents--"the Society of Harmonious Fists," particular habitat
Shantung province--are casually mentioned; but it is remembered that
the provincial governor of Shantung is a strong Chinaman, one Yuan
Shih-kai, who has some knowledge of military matters, and, better
still, ten thousand foreign-drilled troops. Shantung is all right,
never fear--such is the comment of the day.

But the political situation--the _situation politique_ as we call it
in our several conversations, which always have a diplomatic
turn--although not grave, is unhappy; everybody at least acknowledges
that. Peking has never been what it was before the Japanese war. In
the old days we were all something of a happy family. There were
merely the eleven Legations, the Inspectorate of Chinese Customs, with
the aged Sir R---- H---- at its head, and perhaps a few favoured
globe-trotters or nondescripts looking for rich concessions. Picnics
and dinners, races and excursions, were the order of the day, and