“Books? More books!”
My slender library, contained on shelves about five feet high and three feet six broad, appears illimitable to her.
“Yes,” I replied, smiling.
“Are there pictures in them?”
“I expect so.”
“Hi!” to the coolie staggering under the weight of the parcel. “Hayaku! Walk faster! Run!”
And then, almost before I know she has left my side, she is gone, hurrying with short steps up the moss-bordered walk after the coolie, who has quickened his pace into a shambling run.
By the time I reach the house at my slower rate, and enter my room by way of the balcony, she has already got the parcel in front of her on a square of white matting in a patch of brilliant sunshine.
The only fault I am able to find with Mousmé’s face is that it is somewhat apathetic at times, a trifle expressionless. It is animated enough now, however. A look of eager curiosity suffuses it. She is like some gay-coloured humming-bird in her brilliant-hued dress, squatting there in the patch of sunlight, already at work with nimble, painstaking fingers upon the knots of the string around the parcel, coaxing loose the more stubborn ones with the point of one of her immense jade-topped hairpins.
Lou has sent some magazines this quarter which delight Mousmé immensely—The Strand, English Illustrated, and a copy of the Universal Review. This last is a veritable El Dorado of pictures, and provokes exclamations of delight when Mousmé turns the pages over. Only there is so much she cannot understand.