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of perhaps five-and-twenty was standing, or rather leaning, beside a framework of flower-pots, watching a Tea Rose open. My husband, who had already visited the spot before breakfast, had seen him there thus early, drooping before an opening flower, and said that he did not appear to have budged an inch since, though this was an hour or two later. He was pale and languid, and seemed so absorbed by his rosebud that, although he was evidently a gentleman (and they almost always speak a little English), we did not like to ask him to translate for us, until our negotiations for a beautiful stone lantern seemed likely to fall through because of no medium of tongues. But as soon as we had begged for his assistance he roused himself, and at once went off to find the master of the place and to bring him to us. They were so long away that finally we gave up in despair, and went off to a near-by temple to look around; but by great good luck we met our æsthetic friend again, the garden’s master with him, returning to his preserves. This man, the master, spoke English, but, as even a small transaction takes an age in Japan (and this was a big one, for the lantern weighed nearly a ton), we negotiated for a good while: and all the time the visiting man of the pallid countenance stood in his grey kimono worshipping, oblivious of his surroundings, in front of his Rose.