Don’t think that even in all this excitement our taste for shopping has become quiescent. Far from it! Shopping freshens one up, relaxes one’s mind, makes one more keen for the next bit of rumor that comes along. We know where all the antique-shops are situated, those along Ha-ta-Men Street, out on Morrison Street, in the Tartar City, all those without the Wall, and those in the Chinese City, as well as the pawnshops down the lower part of Chi’en Men Street, the Thieves’ Market, and all the various bazaars. And we know the days on which the temple fairs are held. We know all about them and get bargains every day, sometimes real finds, and sometimes stone lions of the purest Ming, such as I described a few days ago. And in the intervals, when we are not out questing on our own, the dealers and runners from the various shops appear at our door, bow themselves in with such ingratiating compliments that we can’t resist, and then stoop over and undo wonderful blue cotton bundles and exhibit such treasures that there’s no withstanding them. The most irresistible of all these dealers is “Tiffany” (his Chinese name has given way to this nickname, which is solemnly printed on his card), dealer in jewels and jade, a giant Chinese about six feet tall, weighing some three hundred pounds, with the smiling, innocent face of a three-foot child! When Tiffany enters the room and squats down over his big blue bundle, his knees spread out, he looks like a wide blue elephant, and there is no refusing his bland, smiling, upturned face, his gentle, “No buy. Just look-see.” Then from the bundle come strings of pearls, translucent jade of “number-one” quality, snuff-bottles fit for a museum. The only way of getting rid of him is to tell him that a new American lady has just arrived on the floor below, whereupon he gathers up his treasures and goes in search of her! His method of gaining admittance to our room is ingenious. A gentle knock, and we open to find the doorway suffused by Tiffany.

“No want things to-day, Mr. Tiffany. No can buy.”

To which comes the pleasant reply: “No want Missy buy. Come bring Missy cumshaw.”

A slender hand slips around the open door, against one side of which I press my knee while he braces a huge foot against the other, and in the hand lies a red leather box painted with flowers and dragons. “Present for Missy; cumshaw,” says the pleasant voice, and what can you do? “Amelican lady you say down-stair, she buy heap pearls, so I bring Missy cumshaw.” Whereupon in he comes, with his gratitude for the American lady, his bargains, his wheedling, and we are lost!

After some weeks of this Tiffany and others, and our own excursions our room became a veritable curio-shop, and our curios were so overlaid with spring dust which the “boys” had failed to remove that we called in a packer one day, had everything boxed, and resolved to buy nothing more. On this afternoon, March 16, we went over to the legation compound to arrange with our consul for invoices, and as we crossed the compound Dr. Reinsch appeared from his house, and came over and spoke to us. He looked very tired and troubled, showing the strain of the last few weeks.

“I’ve just had word from the Chinese Foreign Office,” he said, “that the Russian Government has been overturned!” He had no details, just the mere fact, but the shock was so great that we forgot all about our visit to the consul, forgot our intention to obtain an invoice; all we wanted to do was get off and talk it over! We flew back to the hotel, simply bursting with the news! It’s so exciting, in this old, barbaric city, to hear such news as that, so casually, from your minister! No one in the hotel to talk to, three o’clock, a bad hour! So we went for a walk on the only available place for a walk that Peking affords, the top of the wall. For you can’t walk with comfort in the streets, they are too crowded, with camels and wheelbarrows to be dodged at every turn. And as we walked on the wall, discussing that bit of tremendous news, going over and over again the possibilities contained in those few words, we met other people out walking, also talking it over. The French minister and his first-secretary came by, deeply engrossed in conversation. Some little distance behind us came Dr. Reinsch with one of the press correspondents. We met all diplomatic Peking walking on the wall that afternoon, talking it over! For the wall is a good safe place for conversations: one can’t possibly be overheard, for one can see people coming a mile off. Only foreigners may go there: the Chinese aren’t allowed on it, except the soldiers at the blockhouses by the towers. The most frequent visitor is the baby camel owned by the American marine guards, which comes up to browse on the weeds growing between the stones. We once asked a marine where they found this mascot. “Stole it first,” was the reply, “and paid four dollars afterward!”

I picked up a Tientsin paper a few days ago, and was interested to read an “Ordonnance” promulgated by the French consul-general at Tientsin. By the terms of this decree every Chinese employed in the French concession is obliged to have a little book containing his name, age, place of birth, and so on, together with his photograph and finger-prints. A duplicate carnet is on file at the French police bureau in Tientsin, and no Chinese can find employment in the concession, as cook, groom, clerk, chauffeur, or in any other capacity, unless he is first registered with the police. The idea of having one’s finger-prints recorded, like a common criminal, seems somehow humiliating. I imagine there would be some comment if the Japanese enforced such regulations in their concessions in China.