but animated by the presence of sampans—gondola-like, graceful, with indigo beaks and queer odd-shaped cabins—junks with sails of matting, traders of all nations, hulking colliers, and here and there a man-of-war belonging to a friendly or unfriendly Power.
We are given squares of matting on which to squat, in lieu of chairs, by the ever-smiling mousmé, who then stands mute, awaiting our orders.
“Are there no other guests?” asks Kotmasu, with a quick glance at the little standing figure.
“Yes, several,” replies the mousmé, smiling. And, as though to verify her words, and dispel Kotmasu’s enigmatic and somewhat incredulous smile, we hear unmistakable sounds of hilarity arising from the room beneath our feet, and from a distant chamber on our right.
“But,” continued our mousmé, glancing
