"But," she said, "the Japanese say the getas go—
"'Kara-ko, kara-ko, kara-ko!'"
The notes she gave were the notes I had heard on the stone platforms of every station between Tokio and Yokohama, and going straightway to the piano I found those notes to be F and D in the scale of F Minor. Let the laugh proceed. The Happy Exile possibly might say that those notes were the prominent ones in some old national song, and that the geta-makers had been unconsciously reproducing them ever since.
It was raining. Alack and alas! the Little Maid carried an American umbrella—impious trail of the Saxon! while the Other Man and I bore picturesque Japanese ones that would have given the crowning touch to her, but looked simply ridiculous over us. Thus we went to meet the exquisite courtesy and genuine kindness of a real Japanese home.
Two kotos were played for us, while the players sang "Wind Among the Pines," and the tale of the fairies who fell in love with the fisherman.
"Do you like Japanese music?" said the Little Maid to the Other Man.
"Yes," he said promptly, lying like a gentleman.
"Don't you think it is rather monotonous?" she asked.
"Well—um—um. Don't you like Japanese music?" he said, taking refuge.