THE PIT Wordsworth tended to get a little peevish in the early hours of the morning when the only people left at the bar of the Grand Hôtel des Wagons-Lits were single men and committed alcoholics. In fact, I couldn’t stand the fellow – his arrogance and air of superiority were highly irritating – but in Peking in 1937 there weren’t many people left that one could have a drink with. The Japanese were camped just a few miles outside the city, preparing to invade. The government had moved the capital. Westerners were leaving. The few that remained were holed up inside the Legation Quarter. Leaving it at night was considered suicidal. Even so, I said, “Take me there. Let’s go right now.” “I’m not going to have the car brought out just for you to change your mind,” Wordsworth said through a cloud of cigarette smoke. “Didn’t you hear me? I said, let’s go.” At the time everyone was talking about the Lotus Club. Supposedly it had the most exclusive membership in Peking, but, pre