Leslie turned away in disgust.
“Come,” he said to Jane, “let’s go.” And they passed out into the sunlit street, he carrying the parcel containing the sword, she the rose tree done up in rice paper pictured vaguely with the forms of storks.
“She has given him a wakizashi,” murmured Danjuro, and he retired into a corner to smoke a whiff or two of hay-colored tobacco, and think inscrutable thoughts, before addressing himself to the victim that Mac was preparing down in the cellar.
“What shall we do now?” asked Jane when they were in the street.
Leslie thought for a moment.
“I’ll tell you,” said he. “We’ll get rikshas and go to the cemetery—”
“I’ll do no such thing,” said Jane promptly.
“If you will allow me one moment—I’m not proposing to take you to a place like Kensal Green. A Japanese cemetery is worth seeing, just as much worth seeing as a Japanese town. Then we can go and have luncheon.”
“Where?”
“Would you like to go to an eel-house?”