Holt talked of Masters constantly, relating every incident of his
sojourn in San Francisco he could recall, and of his past that had
come to his knowledge; expatiating bitterly upon his wasted gifts and
blasted life. The more Madeleine winced the further he drove in the
knife.
One night they were sitting on a balcony in Chinatown. In the
restaurant behind them a banquet was being given by a party of
Chinese merchants, and Holt had thought the scene might amuse her.
The round table was covered with dishes no larger than those played
with in childhood and the portions were as minute. The sleek
merchants wore gorgeously embroidered costumes, and behind them were
women of their own race, dressed plainly in the national garb, their
stiff oiled hair stuck with long pins lobed with glass. They were
evidently an orchestra, for they sang, or rather chanted, in high
monotonous voices, as mournful as their gray expressionless faces. In
two recesses, extended on teakwood couches, were Chinamen presumably
of the same class as the diners, but wearing their daily blue silk
unadorned and leisurely smoking the opium pipe. The room was heavily
gilded and decorated and on the third floor as befitted its rank.
Chinamen of humbler status dined on the floor below, and the ground
restaurant accommodated the coolies.
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