"Interpret?" she said, looking at me with clear hazel eyes; "how
could I? You were in the native city yesterday. What did you
miss?"

"Everything! I saw masses of colour, light, movement. Brilliantly
picturesque people. Children like Asiatic angels. Magnificently
scowling ruffians in sheepskin coats. In fact, a movie staged for
my benefit. I was afraid they would ring down the curtain before
I had had enough. It had no meaning. When I got back to my
diggings I tried to put down what I had just seen, and I swear
there's more inspiration in the guide-book."

"Did you go alone?"

"Yes, I certainly would not go sight-seeing with the Meryon
crowd. Tell me what you felt when you saw it first."

"I went with Sir John's uncle. He was a great traveler. The
colour struck me dumb. It flames - it sings. Think of the grey
pinched life in the West! I saw a grave dark potter turning his
wheel, while his little girl stood by, glad at our pleasure, her
head veiled like a miniature woman, tiny baggy trousers, and a
silver nose-stud, like a star, in one delicate nostril. In her
thin arms she held a heavy baby in a gilt cap, like a monkey. And
the wheel turned and whirled until it seemed to be spinning
dreams, thick as motes in the sun. The clay rose in smooth
spirals under his hand, and the wheel sang, 'Shall the vessel
reprove him who made one to honour and one to dishonour?' And I
saw the potter thumping his wet clay, and the clay, plastic as
dream-stuff, shaped swift as light, and the three Fates stood at