It was half-past eight when they finished dining, the hour when Chinatown
begins to be most lively, most ready to amuse itself and, incidentally,
strangers. Therein lay the kernel of the nut, the blossom of the clove:
that this bit of the old, old East, inlaid in the heart of the new West
was not an "exhibition" like "Japan in London," but a large, busy town,
living for itself alone. The big posters in Chinese characters, pasted on
the walls, were for Chinese eyes; not meant to amuse foreigners. The two
or three daily papers printed in Chinese, and filled with advertisements,
were for the Chinese; the bazaars, crammed with strange Eastern things,
were meant to attract women of the Orient, little flitting creatures in
embroidered silk jackets and long, tight trousers, who passed and gazed,
with dark eyes aslant; let European women come, or stay away, as they
pleased, there were plenty of Chinese husbands whose purses were full
enough to keep the merchants of Chinatown contented. The tiny, dressed-up
Oriental dolls--boy and girls--who strolled about with pink balloons or
butterfly kites, in the short intervals between "Mellican" school and
Chinese school, were not baby-actors playing parts on the stage, but real
flesh and blood children, who had no idea that they were odd to look at in
their gay-coloured gowns and tiny caps.
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