Permanent marriages between Europeans and Japanese women are as infrequent as temporary ones are the reverse.
I am more than ever in love with Mousmé by the time of our departure, and am beginning to feel pained that I cannot relieve her mind as to my intentions being permanent. To do so will be quite possible without any breach of decorum in two or three days.
Kotmasu is full of the marriage, and as we walk homeward he tells me that Mousmé’s mother will be delighted. He has at least commenced to arrange things, I think, with the celerity of a professed matrimonial broker.
“But,” he said, “she is nevertheless surprised that you should not require Miss Hyacinth on trial.”
“Did you say anything to her, then?” I ask in my surprise.
“It is all arranged, if you are willing,” he answered, with some amount of pride at his successful diplomacy.
“But what about Miss Hyacinth herself?”
“She! Oh, she will be only too honoured to wed with the English sir.”
How strange Mousmé’s easy compliance with my wishes appears to me. But I accept Kotmasu’s statement gratefully, for at least it relieves my anxiety.
I laugh quite light-heartedly; it is all so delightfully easy. And when I have had a smoke, after Kotmasu has drunk my health comically thrice over in whiskey saké and departed, I turn in and fall asleep, thinking that he is really a very good fellow.