there is scarcely enough air to disperse the smoke of our cigars, the ends of which glow like the red eyes of some wild animal. I can just see Kotmasu’s face when his glows brighter as he inhales.
“And you are not getting bored?” he asks, puffing a cloud of smoke amongst the foliage of a creeper trailing at his elbow.
I know what he means, although he mentions no name, because we are talking in Japanese, and Mousmé may even now be creeping silently, as is her wont, across the room behind us.
“No; I am charmed. She is even more charming than I thought. I shall certainly go home to England as soon as I can.”
“And take her?”
“Certainly; why not?”
Kotmasu can on occasion be fairly concise, if not epigrammatic.
“Mousmé in Bond Street!” he ejaculated; and if he had been English, I
