had she seen anything with such dramatic promise as this.
"Oh! an' what he say then," she begged, with wild interest, "an' what he do?"
Madame Butterfly was reënergized by the maid's applause.
"Ah-h-h! " she sighed. "He don' say—jus' he kiss us, oh, 'bout three—seven—ten—a thousan' time! An' amberace us two thousan' time 'bout 'mos'—tha' 's wha! he do—till we got make him stop, aha, ha, ha! account he might—might—kill us! Tha' 's ver' bad—to be kill kissing."
Her extravagant mood infected the maid. She had long ago begun to wonder whether, after all, this American passion of affection was altogether despicable. She remembered that her mistress had begun by regarding it thus; yet now she was the most daringly happy woman in Japan.
"Say more," the maid pleaded.
Cho-Cho-San had a fine fancy, and the nesting of the robins could not, at the longest, be much longer delayed now; she let it riot.
"Well,"—she was making it up as she went,—"when tha' 's all done, he loog roun' those ways lig he doing 'mos' always,
