On the other side they were burning incense inside; a Chinese man and a woman, two tiny children like gilded idols, and three or four Europeans.  The latter were evidently tourists, with a guide.  They sat on a rough bench, their backs to the door; and the Chinaman was perched on a smaller, higher seat, in front of a rack hung with several odd, brightly painted Chinese musical instruments.  He was playing solemnly and delicately on an object like a guitar gone mad—­so thought Angela—­bringing forth a singing sound, small and crystalline; but, glancing over his shoulder as the newcomer appeared, at once he snatched up another curious object, smiling at Angela, as much as to say the change was a compliment to her.  The instrument was of the mandolin type, covered with evil-looking snake-skin, and having only a few strings, which the player’s fingers touched lightly.  Each gave out a separate vibration, though all blended together with a strange, alluring sweetness, and, underneath, Angela thought that she could hear, faintly, a wicked impish voice hissing and chuckling, as if something alive and vilely clever were curled up inside the instrument—­perhaps the spirit of the snake whose skin had been stolen.

The fat man nodded to the children who stood opposite on a piece of matting, their silk-clad backs against the wooden wall, which was panelled with paintings, very cheap, and not beautiful like those of the restaurant.  But the colours were harmonious; and on a low table stood a blue dragon vase, holding in its mouth a single mariposa lily, such as Angela had never seen before.  Nick, standing beside her, whispered the name of the white-and-crimson-spotted butterfly flower, and she smiled her thanks, as the Chinese woman gave the boy’s cap a pat, and tweaked the American ribbon bow which tied the queue of the little girl.  Both children began to sing, keeping time with the snake-skinned imp.

The boy, who looked about two feet in height—­no more—­sang stolidly, with an unchanging countenance, and no expression in the black beads which were his eyes.  He had on a primrose-coloured silk jacket, fastened across his miniature chest with a loop.  His blue pantaloons were bound round his ankles, and his queue, mostly artificial, was braided with scarlet.  The girl, however—­still smaller than her brother, or perhaps her fiance—­lifted her voice emotionally, singing very high, with the notes of a musical insect, or thin silver strings stretched tight.  Her eyes rolled, she appeared self-conscious, though tired, and tinkled her silver bracelets and anklets.  She saw Angela enter, and admired the newcomer’s pearly skin and gold hair, which seemed to attract all the light in the mean room.  The child stared at her intently, taking in every detail of the black hat and simple though perfect dress.  But the singing insect was not alone in her admiration.

Suddenly Angela felt a touch on her arm.  She turned, and saw a Chinese girl, who might have been sixteen or seventeen, smiling up at her.  Angela smiled too, and the girl kissed her own fingers, dimpling with pleasure, her eyes sparkling.  Then, with a nod of her head, and a gesture of the hand, she invitingly indicated the half-open door.