“There are no more to call,” replied Mac. “They are conseedrin’ the matter. The Japanese are a very supersteetious people, and these are good friends of mine, and I would not spring a pairson upon them with dootful anticeedents. You see, Leslie, man, the presence of the bairn must be explained. She is not a bale of goods we can dump in a corner. Bide a wee; I will talk them over yut.”
The Areopagus was considering the question as to whether Campanula, if admitted to the Tea House of the Tortoise, would bring ruin and destruction or a blessing on the premises, when Hedgehog San, the black cat, settled the matter by coming up to Leslie and rubbing against his leg.
Then the Hon. Hedgehog—may his ashes rest in peace!—jumped on Leslie’s knee and rubbed himself against Campanula.
That clinched the business.
The old lady herself advanced, and, taking the Lost One from the Weary One, carried her bodily into the house, whilst Leslie, yawning and stretching himself, followed.
Inside, in the bare, clean room, the little Mousmé with the camellia in her hair addressed herself to Leslie in a soft and beseeching voice.
“What does she want?” he asked of Mac.
“She wants to know if you require anything.”
“A bath—that’s what I want more than anything—don’t you?”
“I am not given to promeescuous bathing,” said M’Gourley, “being greatly subject to the siatickee; but a bath you wull have, and I’ll e’en sit here and smoke a pipe whilst you bathe yourself.”