of odalisks, half-nude women, effeminate lithographs of Christ,
the deaths of the just and of the sinners--made by Jewish houses in
Germany to be sold in the Catholic countries. Nor were there lacking
the Chinese prints on red paper representing a man seated, of venerable
aspect, with a calm, smiling face, behind whom stood a servant, ugly,
horrible, diabolical, threatening, armed with a lance having a wide,
keen blade. Among the Indians some call this figure Mohammed, others
Santiago, [34] we do not know why, nor do the Chinese themselves give
a very clear explanation of this popular pair. The pop of champagne
corks, the rattle of glasses, laughter, cigar smoke, and that odor
peculiar to a Chinese habitation--a mixture of punk, opium, and dried
fruits--completed the collection.

Dressed as a Chinese mandarin in a blue-tasseled cap, Quiroga moved
from room to room, stiff and straight, but casting watchful glances
here and there as though to assure himself that nothing was being
stolen. Yet in spite of this natural distrust, he exchanged handshakes
with each guest, greeted some with a smile sagacious and humble,
others with a patronizing air, and still others with a certain shrewd
look that seemed to say, "I know! You didn't come on my account,
you came for the dinner!"

And Quiroga was right! That fat gentleman who is now praising him
and speaking of the advisability of a Chinese consulate in Manila,
intimating that to manage it there could be no one but Quiroga, is the
Señor Gonzalez who hides behind the pseudonym _Pitilí_ when he attacks
Chinese immigration through the columns of the newspapers. That
other, an elderly man who closely examines the lamps, pictures,
and other furnishings with grimaces and ejaculations of disdain,
is Don Timoteo Pelaez, Juanito's father, a merchant who inveighs