The same night.

The home of the Chinese Wizard, HIP LOONG, by the river—a place fitted with Chinese things: Dragons of gold with eyes of jade gleaming from out dim corners, Buddhas of gigantic size fashioned of priceless metals with heads that move, swinging banners with fringes of many-coloured stones, lanterns with glass slides on which are painted grotesque figures. The air is full of the scent of joss sticks. The Wizard reclines on a divan, inhaling opium slowly, clothed with the subdued gorgeousness of China—blue and tomato-red predominate. He has the appearance of a wrinkled walnut. His forehead is a lattice-work of wrinkles. His pigtail, braided with red, is twisted round his head. His hands are as claws. The effect is weird, unearthly.

Enter MAH PHRU.

The Wizard silently motions her to some piled-up cushions at a little distance. He listens to what she tells him. He appears unmoved, at a recital apparently full of tragedy. Only the eyes of the dragons move, and the heads of the Buddhas go slowly like pendulums. When she has finished speaking, HIP LOONG makes reply.

“This is how passion always ends. I have lived for a thousand years; and on this planet it is ever the same.”

MAH PHRU is not listening.

“How can I go to my children?” she demands, once again.

“I can turn you into a bird,” the Wizard says. “You can fly to the palace and walk and watch ever on that terrace in the rose gardens above the sea.”

“What bird?” she asks, trembling.

“You shall have the form of the white paddy bird, because, though a woman and foolish as women ever are, you are very pure ivory. O! daughter of man and of love.”

To this MAH PHRU dissents. She paces the long room.

“Transform me into a peacock; they are more beautiful.”

The Wizard, leaning on his elbow, smiles, and the smile is a revelation of a mocking comprehension.
“So be it.” He bows his head.

The lights fade one by one.