“I’ll have that,” said Jane, suddenly seizing the fat baby, the size of a tangerine orange, done in ivory and engaged in feeding ivory ducks on top of a lacquer cabinet, “and the ducks. Tell him to send them to the hotel; you can fight with him about the price afterwards—and those two vases; and oh, that ivory Mousmé with the umbrella—isn’t she sweet! I don’t see anything else I want. You have something, I want to make you a present.”
“I don’t want anything, I’m tired of curios.”
“Well, you’ll just have to want something, for I’m going to make you a present. I’ll give you this.”
She took up a short sword in a carved ivory scabbard. On the ivory handle of it was figured a grimacing god, dancing apparently. She drew the blade, polished and razor-sharp, and then returned it to its sheath.
“Take it; it will come in handy when those robbers you told us of last night at dinner come again.”
“I don’t want the thing; it’s unlucky to give knives.”
“It’s not a knife, it’s a sword!”
“All right,” said Leslie, “anything for peace;” and he took a great sheet of rice paper from Danjuro and wrapped the thing carefully up.
“Now,” said Jane, “I want something for langn-yappe, as they say in New Orleans—something thrown in.”
Danjuro declared that the whole shop was hers to do what she liked with.