He told her things in language unknown to Leslie; things about the sleeping Campanula evidently, for he pump-handled with his arm in the direction where Leslie, bootless now, sat holding her.
The Mousmé on her knees, a camellia blossom in her hair and her eyes fixed upon M’Gourley, seemed fascinated. Then she called out and....
“Hai tadaima,” came a soft voice from somewhere in the back premises, and a second Mousmé appeared, made obeisance, and listened whilst the tale, whatever it was, was laid before her.
Deep astonishment, exclamations of wonder, a call:
“Hai tadaima!” and an old lady appeared, and made obeisance, and listened whilst the thrice-told tale was told her by the two Mousmés and M’Gourley all together.
Meanwhile Leslie, feeling ridiculously like a nursemaid, sat holding the Lost One, whose soul was wandering in the vain land of dreams.
“What are you stuffing those creatures up with?” he suddenly broke out. “Blessed if you oughtn’t to be dressed in a kimono and a petticoat; you’re the biggest old woman of the lot. Ask one of them to take the kid, or I’ll go off to the hotel with her.”
“One minit,” said Mac. “They’re conseedrin’ the matter.”
Scarce had he spoken when the old lady called out, and entered on the scene, an old gentleman, the proprietor of the tea house, a black cat, and two more Mousmés.
“Oh, do call a few more!” said Leslie. “And call in a couple of musicians and make the comic opera complete.”