“Oi-oi!” said Seryozha, putting a careful note of enthusiasm into the ejaculation this time. “And I think there is very many motorcars in London.”
“How many are there in Chi-tao-kou?”
“I think five, not speaking about Mr. Chang’s motorbicycle.”
“There are probably a thousand times as many in London. Motorcars are undoubtedly among the dangers of the streets in London. But I was referring to moral dangers—wine, women, song—”
“We too have singing girls in Chi-tao-kou. Even one Russian one called Sonia Matvievna.”
“I dare say you have. But singing girls mean nothing to me. I take morals and religion very seriously, you see, Mr.—er—. … Ethics, as we call them in London. Reverend Mr. Fawcett used always to say, ‘One can have a good time—God likes us to have a good time—but it should be God’s brand of good time.’ I always think of those words when I am in a moral danger. Is this God’s brand of good time?’ I say to myself, silently. ‘No, it is Satan’s brand.’ So I say, ‘Get behind.’ ”
“Tck tck!” clicked Seryozha, shaking his head ambiguously as it sank lower and lower between his hunched shoulders.
“You are asking yourself,” continued Mr. Chew, “what is this man Chew, a barrister from the Middle Temple, London, EC4, and a Christian of devout morality, doing in a little halfpenny-farthing town like Chi-tao-kou? And you may well ask, Mr.—er—”
“Very well indeed,” said Seryozha.
“The truth is that, under the present confused regime in China, aggravated by ‘bloody Bolshies’ (as Londoners say), it is extremely difficult for a highly educated member of the Middle Temple, called to the bar in London, and, until recently, the devil of Mr. W. I. Morgan, the renowned barrister, to get a living out of practising law in Shanghai or Canton. I therefore engaged myself, temporarily, in other employment—that is, I have been acting as companion, philosopher, and friend (professional) to a young gentleman called Sir Theo Mustard, whose late father was a millionaire in Leeds, England, and whose uncle, now guardian, sent his charge to see the world, expense no object. I must admit that Sir Theo Mustard is not perhaps altogether fortunate—or even normal—in mental equipment, and only occasionally showed a keen interest in the beauty spots to which I guided him. We traveled to the Yangtze gorges; to Nanking; to the Holy Mountain; to the model prison, Peking; to call on the Governor of Mukden; to the Chinese drama; to spend one week in Seoul; to the Kongo-san; and finally I escorted him, with valet, to the train in Harbin which will carry him to Berlin. In Harbin Sir Theo Mustard and I parted with mutual expressions of good will and—”
“To Seoul?” exclaimed Seryozha.
“Yes, Seoul, a fine old-world city, called by some the Peking of Korea. Of course my professional escort was paid for with a very handsome salary, but, most unfortunately, I received bad advice about investments in Harbin, and, to make a long—I mean—in short, I found myself stranded in Manchuria with scarcely a—”
“You have been to Seoul?”
“Yes, I have told you. I went to Seoul with Sir Theo Mustard and spent there a very enjoyable week, since there Sir Theo Mustard was afflicted with earache, which obliged us to stay longer in that picturesque old capital than we had intended. The earache arose, I think, from an otherwise most successful afternoon we spent in the Seoul museum. It made a great impression on Sir Theo Mustard, for he several times referred to Seoul by name, even after we had reached Harbin—”
“Do you know the way from here to Seoul?”
“Certainly I do. I have a great gift for studying maps, railway guides, and other schedules, and in Nanking I was able to show Sir Theo Mustard a chart showing our exact future movements—times of trains—expeditions—names of hotels—curio-shops, etcetera—foreshadowing every detail up to the last moment of the trip. Of course it was impossible for me to anticipate the earache, but apart from this—”
“Will you please come with me and visit my mother and my father to tell them about Seoul?” asked Seryozha.
They both stepped backward from the balustrade with such alacrity that they trod on two bare Chinese feet on tiptoe behind them.
“Certainly I will come and visit anybody,” said Mr. Chew. “As soon as I saw your face, Mr.—er—, I felt we should be friends. I was right.”
“Have you met a gentleman called Gavril Ilitch Isaev in Seoul?” asked Seryozha breathlessly, as they walked side by side up the street.
“Isaev? He keeps a small but respectable hotel in Seoul, and, curiously enough, I stayed there for a night or two, since the Japanese hotel was full when we first arrived or rather, it had only one suite disengaged, which was occupied by Sir Theo Mustard and valet.”
Seryozha’s dog bounced into Anna’s kitchen, and when Anna saw it, she thought, “Thank God, he has not gone away forever, after all.”
“Mamma,” said Seryozha, “I have brought Mr. Wilfred Chew from London.”
“From London?” exclaimed Anna, and instantly left the room. For she was still wearing only her cotton bodice and petticoat, and there was a bottle-green velvet dress, sixteen years old, waiting in a tin
