Why?
Well, he could not allege any specific reason. The House of the Clouds was empty, but he had not considered the matter of letting it. The proposition came as an honorable shock to him.
Then Mac and Danjuro tackled Mr. Initogo, tea was brought forth, and after half an hour’s wavering Mr. Initogo began to give in.
He sent for his son, and piloted by the son, the two Scotchmen went off to inspect the House of the Clouds.
They passed up a by-street and then up a steep path, till they came to a gate shadowed by lilac trees. The gate led to a tiny demesne, a long, white, two-storied house, before which lay a grass plot, at the far end of the house some cherry trees, and a space that might be used as a garden.
From the veranda of the House of the Clouds one could look down on Nagasaki and the harbor that pierces the land like a crooked sword. The hum of Jinrikisha Street came up, mixed with the eternal song of the cicalas.
Across the harbor, where the junks and sampans contrasted strangely with the foreign shipping, hills rose up, green near the water, brown further off; over the hills a few white fleecy clouds passed on the light wind. It was the sky of an English summer.
“I like this,” said Leslie, turning from the view. “Now let’s look at the house.”
It was furnished with primrose-colored matting, nothing else, and it was about as substantial as a bandbox. There were two stories connected by a flight of steps without a balustrade, and you could make as many rooms as you liked with sliding panels.
“I’ll take it,” said Leslie, and they returned to the shop of Danjuro. Mr. Initogo was fetched, and after more wriggling and haggling and tea-drinking and the smoking of tiny pipes, he consented to let the place—the authorities willing.