posturing. He had lived in an atmosphere of trickery and deception. He
had learned to look upon mankind as dupes of their senses: in fine, if
he had thought at all, he would have been a sceptic; if he had been a
little older, he would have been a cynic; if he had been older still,
he would have been a philosopher. As it was, he was a little imp. A
good-natured imp it was, too,--an imp whose moral nature had never
been awakened,--an imp up for a holiday, and willing to try virtue as
a diversion. I don't know that he had any spiritual nature. He was very
superstitious. He carried about with him a hideous little porcelain god,
which he was in the habit of alternately reviling and propitiating.
He was too intelligent for the commoner Chinese vices of stealing or
gratuitous lying. Whatever discipline he practised was taught by his
intellect.

I am inclined to think that his feelings were not altogether
unimpressible, although it was almost impossible to extract an
expression from him; and I conscientiously believe he became attached
to those that were good to him. What he might have become under more
favorable conditions than the bondsman of an overworked, under-paid
literary man, I don't know: I only know that the scant, irregular,
impulsive kindnesses that I showed him were gratefully received. He
was very loyal and patient, two qualities rare in the average American
servant. He was like Malvolio, "sad and civil" with me. Only once,
and then under great provocation, do I remember of his exhibiting any
impatience. It was my habit, after leaving the office at night, to take
him with me to my rooms, as the bearer of any supplemental or happy
after-thought, in the editorial way, that might occur to me before the
paper went to press. One night I had been scribbling away past the
usual hour of dismissing Wan Lee, and had become quite oblivious of
his presence in a chair near my door, when suddenly I became aware of