The Japanese find the excuse that foreigners know no better, just as we excuse the dirty habits of natives. But they quote the kiss as an indisputable proof of the lowness of our moral standard, and as a sign of the guilt, not of individuals so much as of our whole civilisation.
"Foreign people kiss too much," said cousin Sadako, "it is a bad thing. If I had a husband, I would always fear he kiss somebody else."
"That is why I am so happy with Geoffrey," said Asako, "I know he would never love any one but me."
"It is not safe to be so sure," said her cousin darkly, "a woman is made for one man, but a man is made for many women."
Asako, arrayed in a Japanese kimono, and to all appearance as Japanese as her cousin, was sitting in the Fujinami tea-parlour. She had not understood much of the lesson in tea-ceremony at which she had just assisted. But the exceeding propriety and dignity of the teacher, the daughter of great people fallen upon evil days, had impressed her. She longed to acquire that tranquillity of deportment, that slow graceful poise of hand and arm, that low measured speech. When the teacher had gone, she began to mimic her gestures with all the seriousness of appreciative imitation.
Sadako laughed. She supposed that her cousin was fooling. Asako thought that she was amused by her clumsiness.
"I shall never be able to do it," she sighed.
"But of course you will. I laugh because you are so like Kikuyé San."
Kikuyé San was their teacher.
"If only I could practise by myself!" said Asako, "but at the hotel it would be impossible."