There was just now living in the pleasant city of Nagasaki an inn-keeper of the name of Yamagata, who owned a tea house named “The Full-blown Peony Flower.”
Mr. Yamagata was a Progressive. He believed that a tea house where a real English luncheon or dinner could be obtained would, judging from his compatriots’ passion for things European, be a success.
And it was, till half Jinrikisha Street nearly died of indigestion.
His tea house was a tiny affair situated up an entry near Danjuro’s shop, and surrounded by a little courtyard, wherein grew dyspeptic-looking plum trees in pale amber-colored pots.
Danjuro, who was a friend of Yamagata’s, had been chanting the praises of the place so long, that Mac had become obsessed by the idea of it; and casting about for somewhere new to take Campanula, the idea had turned up like a horrible sort of trump card.
The tea house was on its last legs, and practically deserted, so they had the place to themselves; and having ordered the meal they sat on the matting of a desolate room and waited for it to come.
“Campanula,” said Mac, “you have never seen that blind man before?”
She shook her head.
“Never; nor one so ugly as he.”
“Campanula,” said Mac earnestly, “if you see him again dinna speak with him; he’s an ill man and bodes no good.”