I went on, determined to be friendly. "I am sure you will find much of interest here. All the beauties of Japan are not on the surface. The loveliness of the scenery and the picturesqueness of the people will appeal to you."
The phrase was about as new as "Mary had a little lamb," but it was all I could think to say. My conversational powers seemed off duty.
The girl scented my confusion and a half-smile crept around her lips.
"Country's all right," she answered. "But the natives are like punk imitations of a vaudeville poster; they're the extension of the limit."
Her words, although English, were as incomprehensible to me as if I had never heard the language, but her scorn was unmistakable. As if to emphasize it, the hand she had persistently held behind her was thrust forward toward the burning coals in the hibachi. Her fingers held a half burnt cigarette. This she lighted, and without embarrassment or enjoyment began to smoke.
An American girl smoking! I was shocked, but I held tight.
"Do you smoke much?" I asked, for the want of something better to say.
"Never smoked before. But my august, heaven-born grandfather, who to my mind is descended direct from the devil, wishes me to adopt the customs of his country. Thought I'd start with this."
"But," I reminded her, "it is not the custom in this country for young girls to smoke."
"Oh, isn't it?"—indifferently—"it doesn't matter. Had to begin on something or—die."