“What do the women wear? How do they dress? Are their obis as handsome as mine?” and so on.
Kotmasu endeavors to describe the attire of my fellow-countrymen, blundering magnificently over its hidden intricacies.
“It is dull, very dull indeed,” he explains, with an apologetic glance in my direction, as if fearful that I should seek to upset his statement. “There are no colours worn—at least,” he hastens to add, with another glance over in my direction through the tiny cloud of bluish-grey smoke his absurd tobacco-pipe permits him to eject, “not colours like ours. Not like you are wearing, Mousmé.”
I laugh to myself, partially at the perplexed expression on Mousmé’s face, and partially at the idea of her promenading in England in all the glory of a canary-coloured obi, plum-coloured gown embroidered in gold thread, and a bifurcated garment of ivory satin.
“The women wear no obis,” continues Kotmasu, complacently.
“No obis!” ejaculates Mousmé, evidently incredulous.
“No. Sometimes the children do.”
“It is velly stlange,” says Mousmé, “and they not look velly large here. See!” she continues, placing her tiny hands as though to span her waist. “What do they wear then?”
Kotmasu is launched forthwith into a veritable catalogue. The garments comprised in which must be individually explained for Mousmé’s enlightenment. Kotmasu, plunging innocently into the sea of impropriety, at last succeeds in satisfying her curiosity.
As we rise and step out upon the verandah to get a breath of cooler air, she comes close to me, and taking my hand in her pretty I-wish-to-be-protected way, whispers in Japanese, “How strange it will be! Cy-reel, I am a little frightened; I feel like the other night when I was awoke by the nidzoumi scampering across the floor, and squeak, squeaking in the walls.”