There is no moon to-night, and the clouds hang low, making the evening dull and close. Everything is so still, with a deep silence that is at once oppressive and slightly terrifying, until one is accustomed to it. Down below lies the town, like some vast black monster with many twinkling eyes. There is no wind; indeed, 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 knew instinctively that he would have whistled.
“Why Bond Street?” I asked somewhat feebly, with just a shade of chilliness at my heart from the incongruity conjured up by his words.
“Because,” he replied slowly, “that would be a good test.”