But the soul in him bubbled. He could quite understand the Member of Parliament’s point of view, but Leslie’s was quite beyond his power to grasp.
Honesty for the sake of honesty, and without any ulterior reason, even Art for Art’s sake was more understandable than that.
So he hissed without pleasure as he bowed before Leslie and Jane, imploring them to condescend to make the honorable entrance, and intimating that everything in the place was theirs.
Jane nodded to him, and looked round.
“There’s one of the monstrosities I told you of that George bought the other day,” said she, pointing to a bronze frog half as big as an ordinary coal-box. “Oh, look at that!”
She pointed to a furious struggle in bronze between a man and a monster. The monster had opened its mouth to devour the man, and the man had caught it by the tongue, which he was tearing out.
It was the climax of the fight, and the conclusion one could read in the triumphant ferocity of the man’s face—a thing to make one shudder.
“Danjuro San,” said Leslie grimly, speaking in Japanese, whilst Jane gazed at the fighting group, “this is the lady whose husband you and M’Gourley San entertained the other day—the Red-headed One. She is a friend of mine, and I pray you to entertain her differently.”
This is a vague interpretation of the Japanese for “This is the lady whose husband you swindled the other day, but if you play any of your tricks with her, I’ll make you sit up—see?”
To fight with a Japanese you must come to blows, for you can’t possibly do it in words properly. The old Japanese who made the language had no use for terms of abuse: swords were good enough for them.