Stiff black-wood chairs lined the walls.

A distorted landscape on rice-paper, narrow scarlet panels inscribed with black cursive characters, pith flowers from Amoy, made blots of brightness.
"It iss not moch, gentlemen," sighed Wutzler, cringing.

"But I am ver' glad." Heywood flung himself into a chair.
"Not dead yet, you rascal ?" he cried.

"And we came all the way to see you.

No chow, either." "Oh, allow me," mumbled their host, in a flutter.